


Sparrows

by Soledad



Category: Brother Cadfael - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Medieval mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Disclaimer:** Brother Cadfael and all other characters belong to Ellis Peters, whose talent and knowledge as a medievalist I greatly admire.   


**Timeframe:** late November 1141, shortly before the events of “The Raven in the Foregate”.

**CHAPTER ONE – ON BROKEN WINGS**

November of the year 1141 of Our Lord was an unusually mild one, with the grass still green on the pastures, the winds gentle and the skies lightly veiled, announcing a similarly mild winter to come. The few surviving roses on the sole rosebush in the widow Boneth’s small garden had grown tall and spindly, but were still budding, displaying a fragile beauty that somehow managed to touch the otherwise fairly unromantic heart of the widow’s only son.

John Boneth, a fine-looking young man of twenty and seven years, had been the master locksmith of the town since his tutor, the late Baldwin Peche, had been murdered almost a year and a half ago, for poking that long nose of his a little too enthusiastically into other people’s private business. By then, John had learned everything his skilled but idle master could have taught him, and had been capable of running the business single-handedly.

In fact, he had done so for the last two years already, Master Peche preferring to tread and carry gossip round the ale-houses, leaving the work to John entirely. As his master had been widowed, with no son to inherit the smithy, John had been the evident successor for years and had taken over smoothly, even though a bit earlier than everyone – even himself – had expected.

Still, there had been no doubt, no question that his master had wanted him to take over. He had been trusted and depended on all those years – and as a man who had wanted to make sure that things would go the way of his liking, Baldwin Peche even had a writ entrusted to the _Guild Merchant_ ’s clerk. A writ in which he expressly named John Boneth as his successor. And as both John himself and his work were well-known and well-liked with the _Guild Masters_ , he had been accepted among them without much discussion.

Now, a year and a half later, John Boneth found that he liked to be his own master. He liked to have his own business and to be accepted by the respected craftsmen of the town as an equal. By all due modesty, he knew he deserved it. He might be young, yes, but he was good at his craft, and in the end, that was the only thing that counted.  
  
On this particularly fine day John got up while it was still dark outside. The previous day had been a holiday, celebrating the life – and martyrdom – of some obscure saint, thus he wanted to begin work early, to catch up with the time he had lost. He trusted that Griffin, who also slept in the shop as a watchman, would already have kindled the fire and made all ready for the day’s work by the time he would arrive. The boy was always the first up from either household that shared the yard: John’s and that of the Aurifabers… although, considering that he did not actually _live_ there, John could hardly call the shop and the currently unused adjoining room a _household_. He preferred to stay in his mother’s house and just walked over there to work, every day.

Having washed and put on his working clothes, John went to the kitchen, where his mother had already fixed some porridge for him, with a tankard of weak ale and some bread. The bread was from the previous day, but still fresh and tasty – wile he still could not afford the fine white _cocket_ or domain bread, having raised to the status of a master of his craft meant that they could do better than buying the horse, an extremely coarse bread, made from the lowest quality flour. John found he liked the brown or black sorts available from the town bakers very much.

Mistress Boneth, a short, well-rounded widow in her middle fifties, sat down on the other side of the kitchen table and admired her son’s healthy appetite with maternal pride. She was still a handsome woman for her age, with a broad yet surprisingly finely-featured face, deep-set, observant, grey-blue eyes and a low, gentle voice, her auburn hair pulled back from her face and hidden under a crisp white wimple. Her erect carriage made her appear taller than she actually was, and her dark gown, with its bountiful skirts, gave her the appearance of general largeness that appealed to people and made them obey her at the same time. The boy Griffin certainly went in awe of her, even though she was never aught but kind to him.

Mother and son talked a little about business while John was eating. Mistress Boneth, being lettered and numbered, had once done her husband’s books and was now, that he had become his own master, doing those of her son, saving him the necessity to employ a clerk. The business was going well enough, as John was a skilled and hard-working man and friendly to his customers. There could be no doubt that in time he would become a well-to-do craftsman, better than his late father had ever been.

Thus Mistress Boneth felt the need to address again the only thing that often caused mild tension between them: the matter of marriage. To be still unwed at John’s age, when he had a business of his own, was an unusual thing and one a bit frowned upon. People expected their _Guild Masters_ , even the younger ones, to be married and raise a family. Not to mention that a wife with a handsome dowry would be a helpful thing.

“You have been your own master for a year and more by now,” Mistress Boneth reminded her son. “You cannot keep mourning her forever. You are heading towards thirty yourself; ‘tis time to find a suitable bride.”

This particular topic was perhaps the only one on God’s earth that could make the good-natured locksmith angry. _Her_ , that had been Susanna Aurifaber, the goldsmith’s daughter, her elder by almost five years, and one whom he had admired from the day on that he had begun to work for Baldwin Peche, almost seven years back by now.

Had her greedy father not begrudged her a dowry, she could have been a more than suitable wife for a respected craftsman – more so as she had been the mistress of her father’s household for fifteen years, in her ailing grandmother’s stead. She had done this calmly and competently, until forced out of her position by her brother’s young wife.

John would have taken her even so, without any dowry, for her beauty and competence would have been enough to help him build their own household. But Susanna had never as much as looked at him with aught but cold disinterest. Although they had known each other for five years, living and working next door, she had always remained at the same discreet distance. She had been the landlord’s daughter, the rich master-craftsman’s girl – her father would never have found a mere journeyman a worthy match for her. He would not give her the dowry to marry her off to a suitable husband, but would not allow her to take a less suitable, either.

Was it a wonder that such unjust treatment had turned Susanna against her father? That she had sought comfort by someone who had been close and willing to do anything for her? Yes, it was a sad thing hat she had become a thief and a murderer at the end, but had she ever been given a fair chance by her family? They had used her, favouring her young brother in all things, and then discarded her when she was no longer needed, in favour of her brother’s young wife.

As that strange nun had said, the one who had come to claim Susanna’s body, to grant her at least a decent funeral, the root of all evils had been Walter Aurifaber’s greed. Had he treated his daughter properly, none of those horrible things would have happened.

Yes, John Boneth was still mourning the loss of Susanna Aurifaber, even though he knew he would not have a true chance to win her hand anyway. He was mourning the loss of what she could have become: the respected matron of a large household, even if not that of his own. He had loved her enough to wish her a good life with someone else, too. And he greatly disliked it when people dismissed her memory as something of no true importance. Even if his mother was the one doing so.

“I _have_ found a suitable bride, mother,” he said through gritted teeth, “and I lost her before I could have had her. Now, could you just leave it alone? I shan’t marry anyone, unless they stir my heart, even if they turn out less than suitable. You better get used to the idea.”

He ate the rest of his breakfast in stony silence – leaving half-eaten food to go waste was _not_ something that would be tolerated in their house – and then he took his cloak and capuchon and stormed off in rarely-displayed black anger.

Mistress Boneth looked after her son and shook her head, sighing and wondering what in Susanna Aurifaber might have captured John so completely. Certainly, she _had_ been a good girl once; but her girlhood had been gone already when John fell for her. Certainly, she had been comely, with those wide-set, cold grey eyes of her, and her wealth of russet hair, braided and bound austerely on her head. But even her smile had always been distant and cold. And she had never cared for John – had lain with that Welsh journeyman of her father’s instead, carrying a bastard child from him…

What had John ever seen in her?

Like all devoted mothers with an only son, Mistress Boneth believed with all her heart that John deserved better. And for the first time, the thought occurred to her that perhaps a less suitable bride, who at least _loved_ her son, would be better for him. A handsome dowry was good for the business. But a loving wife was good for a man’s heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John Boneth was approaching the goldsmith’s burgage, where he still had his own shop, from the so-called High Street; a street that led to the gateway of the Castle. The neck of land narrowed here, in the northeast part of the town, so that the rear plots of the houses on either side of the street ran down to the town walls. The circle of the town itself, meanwhile, lay to the southwest, in the secure embrace of the River Severn.

The Aurifaber house was known to be one of the largest plots in town, and the goldsmith himself was considered one of the wealthiest men, which made the fact that he had begrudged her only daughter a dowry even more outrageous. But again, was that not the usual way of the rich, to have every penny cut out from under their very hide, rather than giving it up voluntarily? Did malevolent gossip not say that Aurifaber’s wife had died from starvation after having given birth to an heir, since there had been no more reason to feed her?

The house certainly showed the wealth of its owner. A right-angled house it was, with a wing on the street, and the hall and main dwelling running lengthwise behind – clearly too large for a family of only four. Aurifaber must have seen it similarly, for he’d found a way to make more money of the part the family had no immediate use for. He had divided off the wing and let it as a shop and dwelling for the late Baldwin Peche, some ten years back. As the locksmith had been a widower in his middle years and without children, he had found it convenient and adequate to his needs.

John Boneth had been of two minds about the solution. On the one hand, moving the shop back to his mother’s house – where it had originally been, before the untimely death of his father – would save him money… and he would not be constantly reminded of Susanna and her tragic fate. Not to mention that he would not have to watch Daniel Aurifaber prancing around like a cockerel, and that dough-faced young wife of his puffing herself up as the new mistress of the house.

On the other hand, moving the shop would cost much labour… and money, too, for the help would have to be paid. And the customers had grown used to the current location of the shop, which was admittedly a better one than that of the Boneth house, where it had been hidden in one of the small, dark side rooms – beside the fact that it was only two streets away. And remembering Susanna did have its good moments, too. Thus, for the time being, John chose to remain there, keeping the right to change his mind later.

When he crossed the narrow passage leading through between the two shops to the open yard behind, John saw Griffin coming from the stone well of said yard, carrying two large buckets of water. Now nearing fifteen of age, the boy was well-grown and comely enough, with the contented nature of most simpletons, and surprisingly good with his hands. He did not mind to work hard, and he would do everything for people who were friendly to him.

John had inherited Griffin from their late master, together with the shop, and both were well content with the arrangement. Griffin had held John second only to their master already, back when Baldwin Peche had still been alive, and welcomed him as the new master of the business. More so as John proved a kind master, one who valued Griffin’s gift for picking up practical skills almost without any effort, and was more than happy to teach him his craft. The boy might not possess the wit necessary to become a master craftsman of his own, but he more than earned his keep. _And_ he was not as dim-witted as to be unable to pick up the most interesting gossip, so he was entertaining company, too. John liked him a lot.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They greeted each other heartily enough and made themselves ready to begin work, when Griffin, whose wandering interest was piqued by every unusual thing, spotted two small figures approaching from the road that led beyond the Castle to the town gate. The smaller one was clearly supporting the other, who seemed to be either sick or injured.

“Who could they be?” asked the daft boy in surprise. “Why should they be on the road this early? The town gate could barely have been opened yet…”

John shrugged indifferently. He wanted to be at his work without further delay, but he knew Griffin would be mostly useless ‘til his curiosity was satisfied. There were disadvantages in taking in a dimwit; but since the advantages outweighed by far, John was willing to cut the boy some slack.

“You’ll see when they are close enough,” he said dismissively. “In the meantime, do your chores. We have a lot of work and very little time to do it, as in two day’s time we’re having another saint whose martyrdom we must celebrate.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. He might not be an overly religious man, but he had good, solid faith and respected the Church and its commandments. It was just so that sometimes such constant interruptions made it hard to have any decent work done in time.

Seeing that his young master was in one of his rare bad moods, Griffin wisely returned to his chores. They prepared the iron tablets for the new keys that needed to be cut for the provost’s house, and for the coffins Martin Bellecote had ordered. After that, John intended finish his own strong-box, now that he actually needed one. He had worked on it in his spare time for almost a year by now, but there had always been something more urgent to do, for paying customers, and those had to come first. But even John’s eye wandered to the two small shapes darkening the otherwise empty road from time to time.

Those two were making painfully slow progress, the taller one leaning heavily upon the shorter one for support and lurching forward with visible difficulty. He – John could not see his face under that russet hood, but the relative broadness of the shoulders spoke of a man, even though of a fairly slight one – must have been either injured or beaten up badly. And now there could be no longer any doubt that the smaller one was a woman.

A skinny little woman, whose thin body was swollen with child.

“Master John,” said Griffin, who, too, was watching, quietly. “That cottee the man is wearing, and the capuchon… do they not look familiar to you? It seems to me as if young Master Aurifaber had worn these in his younger years.”

Knowing that Griffin’s observations – if not always the conclusions drawn from them – were usually fairly accurate, John took a closer look at said pieces of clothing. The cottee was of good, dark-blue cloth, clearly made for some wealthy youth, albeit patched in quite a few places and wearing the dust and the stains of long travels. The caped hood of russet brown was in a worse shape, much-mended, but still good enough for some poor, homeless wretch.

“You may be right,” said John in surprise. “I marvel how they got to this poor man.”

“Perchance given away in charity?” guessed Griffin. “Mistress Susanna was known to hand down the outgrown garb of her brother to those in need, even though old Dame Juliana would not.”

John nodded. “Perhaps so… but it must have happened some time ago, for the cottee to get into such a battered shape. Well, since we have stopped working already, we can as well help them. The woman is obviously with child, and the man can barely stay on his feet. Let us bring them in and have them rest for a moment.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Griffin more than agreed with the generous suggestion, and thus they hurried out to the street to offer the weary travellers their support. Those had all but reached the burgage anyway, and accepted the offered help gratefully. They were too exhausted to even speak much, and as the morning light was still low and grey, John could not take a closer look at them before they were helped into his shop and seated on the bench where usually the customers would sit, waiting for small repairs to be finished.

Griffin brought over a small oil lamp, and the man finally pulled back the russet capuchon, wincing in pain as he raised his hand. The light fell at his gaunt, bruised, youthful face, smeared with blood, sweat and the dirt of the road. His lips were split and swollen, too, his nose probably broken, and as he laboriously breathed through a half-open moth, John could see that one of his front teeth was missing, as well. His eyes were of a dark, brilliant blue, like periwinkle flowers, yet hollow and evasive, and one of them swollen almost entirely shut. Yes, there could be no doubt that he had been beaten up badly, probably by several people.

John felt righteous anger rising in his breast. Why would anyone abuse such a waif of man, no matter what he might have done? By the sight of him, he had perchance stolen an egg from under a hen, or a hunk of bread, or something else to eat – for himself or, more likely, for the pregnant little woman on his side. His wife perhaps?

Such a slight little body she was, the gown, once made for a taller and better-fed person, hanging on her, although it clearly had been altered to fit better, patched up and stained with the dust of the road and the blood of her man, all great dark eyes in a pale, grubby face and a tangle of dark hair. But those eyes were surprisingly radiant, as she finally looked up at their benefactors, and there was a hidden beauty in that thin face of hers, veiled by the grime of the road and the dried track of tears.

She looked up at them with desperate bravery and utter gratitude – and that was when John finally recognized her.

“Rannilt, is that you?”

She nodded mutely and with a pale, thankful smile for being acknowledged and recognized. Rannilt she was indeed, once the overworked and unconsidered maidservant of the Aurifabers, who had laboured in the smoky kitchen and scrubbed the washing on her knees in the yard, her small yet strong hands sore from the lye. Rannilt, who had fallen in desperate love with the wandering minstrel falsely accused of robbing Master Aurifaber, and risked everything to help him and to be with him. Rannilt, who would not speak ill of her mistress, Susanna Aurifaber, even though she would have killed her.

Rannilt, who, in the end, had left the town with her rehabilitated minstrel, going forth, hopefully and happily, to a new life. To a life that had never promised aught else than hardness and insecurity – for there were no grand hopes for a wandering juggler and singer, working at fairs and markets and small manors. And yet they had gone with a spring in their step, heartened by the certainty that in all weathers and at all seasons, at the very least, they would be together.

And now here she was again, by the sight of her weeks, perhaps only days from giving birth. Her husband – for John recognized now the gangly young minstrel whom Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding crowd had nearly lynched for nothing a year and a half earlier – beaten up again and perchance for no true reason. They had nothing with them, nothing at all. No scrip with food, no bundle of spare clothes, not even the worn bag in which the juggler had kept his wooden rings and balls. Not the rebec, that – John knew from her mother, who knew it from Constance, Lady Beringar’s maid, who knew it from Lady Beringar herself – Brother Anselm of the abbey had so miraculously repaired for him.

“What happened to you?” asked John, and his heart went out to them, seeing all their hopes shattered so brutally, and their sorry shape. “Who did this to you? Why did you come back at all?”

“Robbed by brigands on the road,” whispered Rannilt. “Liliwin tried to protect me, and they nearly killed him for it. They took everything we had and left him for dead. I came back for him when they were gone, tried to help him, but I don’t know how. So we came back – we were not far from the town, and I hoped Mistress Margery would take me in again as a maid. We have to eat; without a patron, the winter would kill us both… us and the child.”

“I am in no shape to work,” Liliwin added bitterly, his voice coming hoarsely from a bruised throat, “and without my rebec, I cannot even make music for people to dance…”

Griffin gave him a critical look and shook his head.

“You are in no shape for aught else but lie down and have your hurts tended to,” he looked at John. “I heard that Brother Cadfael, from the abbey, tended to him the last time. Perhaps he’d be willing to do so again.”

John nodded. “Go. Ask the good brother in my name to come and see after him again. I shall see to it that he is comfortable.”

“He can use my bed,” offered Griffin, who had a generous heart. “I won’t need it during the day.”

And off he was, hurrying towards the bridge with his long, purposeful strides.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With Rannilt’s help, John supported the battered young minstrel into a more or less upright position and led him to the pallet bed in the shop’s corner that was Griffin’s resting place. Liliwin, again, winced in pain when he was lowered onto the bed, and there was a slight rasping sound to his breathing that John did not like at all. He feared that the minstrel’s lungs, too, were hurt in some way, and hoped that Brother Cadfael would arrive, soon. Should a broken rib have punctured a lung, Liliwin would not last very long. And then Rannilt would be left alone, in a hostile, or, at the very best, uncaring world, penniless, and with an unborn child under her heart….

Which reminded John of something she had said earlier.

“Do you truly believe that Mistress Margery would take you in?” he asked doubtfully. What he had seen of Margery Aurifaber since she had become the unquestioned mistress of the house had not seemed very hopeful.

“She was always kind to me,” answered Rannilt naïvely.

“For all the six or seven days you lived under the same roof,” reminded her John, “some of which you spent elsewhere as it is. I wouldn’t put my hopes too high if I were you.”

But Rannilt shook her head decidedly.

“The day after her wedding, when Liliwin was kept in the abbey, she gave me some outgrown clothes of Master Daniel,” she said, as if _that_ would mean a thing. “She pitied Liliwin for his poor clothing and wanted to help. Perhaps she would do so again…”

“I very much doubt it,” John hated to crush her child-like hopes, but she needed to face the truth if she was to survive. “You will see that she has changed a great deal since she became the mistress of the house. You won’t like the changes.”

_He_ certainly did not. Granted, Griffin was the one to suffer Margery’s bossy manner directly, but even for John, dealing with her was becoming increasingly unpleasant. There was a reason why Daniel Aurifaber would go out most evenings, either to the ale-house, or to gamble with friends, or who knew for what other purpose. Not that he would be the best of husbands, but enduring Margery’s endless laments about his lacking in this capacity – and John had heard enough arguments between them, however involuntarily, to have an overall idea what it was like – must have been tiring.

Rannilt, however, still seemed to believe in the goodness of people’s heart, despite her recent experiences.

“If she sees that I’m with child, she surely will have pity with me,” she said hopefully.

John shook his head. “That you’re with child would only increase her bitterness,” he answered. “You see, she has just lost a babe a few weeks ago – that you have been more fortunate with yours will _not_ make her any more perceptive for your need. On the contrary. She would envy you bitterly for that which you have been granted and she has not.”

“Oh, but she will understand my need all the better,” said Rannilt eagerly. “You see, I lost my first babe, too, in the third month, and a horrible thing it was! She will understand that I would do anything to keep this one. _Anything_.”

“She might understand _that_ ,” answered John slowly, “but it won’t make her look at you with less bitterness. After all, you _are_ with child again, while she is not. And though Master Arnald examines her regularly and gives her draughts to ensure conception, she has not been so fortunate yet.”

That made Rannilt think for a moment. She had known Master Aurifaber’s personal physician all her life; known how skilled and knowledgeable Master Arnald was, and how much the elder Aurifaber relied on him, even though Dame Juliana had trusted Brother Cadfael more and never allowed anyone else to treat her.

“She is getting desperate about the matter,” John continued quietly, “for she knows she _has_ to give her husband an heir if she wants to keep what little shards of attention he spares for him. Which is the other thing she would bitterly envy you for: that you could leave on your own volition, with a man of your own choosing... a man who has loved you at first sight, and who still loves you, I deem.”

“I do, with all my heart,” Liliwin whispered.

John nodded. “And that is it, in the end. Mistress Margery knows all too well that her husband only married her for her money, and she makes sure he remembers whom that money truly belongs. She keeps Daniel on the short leash; in truth, she holds the string of her purse tighter than even old Dame Juliana did. But she also knows that – unless she gives the Aurifabers an heir – her position in the household would not last long. I would not hope much from her, if I were you. Is there no-one else you could turn to for help?”

Devastated, Rannilt wrung her hands. They were rough and chapped, even worse than they had been while she still had been labouring for the Aurifaber house. Life on the road must have been terribly hard on her, John thought.

“I cannot think of anyone,” she finally whispered, “save the Lady Beringar, who was very good to me before we wed. But surely we cannot bother the lady of the deputy sheriff on our behalf!”

“Actually, Lord Beringar is the sheriff of Shropshire now,” John said. “Has been since Sheriff Prestcote was mortally wounded in the Battle of Lincoln last February. And yes, you _could_ turn to her for help, were she in town right now, for she is well known for her open heart and generosity. But at it is, she’s off to Maesbury, visiting some relatives of Lord Beringar’s, and not expected back for a while yet.”

Rannilt’s thin shoulders sloped forward in such hopeless resignation it almost broke John’s heart. True, she was not his responsibility, but he simply could not leave her like that, bereft of what little hope she might have had. Not without at least trying to help.

He saw the light going on in the Aurifaber’s shop, on the opposite side of the passage. He knew Margery would come over, soon, to bring her husband’s breakfast. Daniel preferred to eat in the shop, where he could avoid his father’s long-winded preaching about his wasting hard-earned money for things that were not truly needed.

“Do you want me to speak with Mistress Margery on your behalf?” he offered. He did not hope much from that, but with him, at least Margery would be forced to be civil. He was their paying tenant _and_ a _Guild Master_ of his own.

The tremulous smile Rannilt gave him as an answer was like the pale sunlight filtering through black storm clouds.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Time had not been kind to Margery Aurifaber née Bele. When she had come to the goldsmith’s house, as the newly wed wife of Daniel Aurifaber, she had been a small, round, homely girl of barely twenty years, with fresh, rosy colouring and a great, untidy mass of yellow hair, frightened and lost in an unfamiliar and disrupted household, in awe of Dame Juliana and bitterly envious of Susanna’s position as the unquestioned mistress of the house.

Now, a year and a half later, she was the unquestioned mistress of the house, having forced her unfaithful husband to stand up for her against his own sister. She had him in her hand, and they both knew that… but it did not seem to have made her any happier in her marriage.

Small and round and homely she still was, but that rosy colouring was gone, having given room for a pallid, unhealthy colour. Her hair was now neatly pulled back from her face and tucked away under a matronly white wimple, and there were dark rings under her eyes, making them appear a pale, watery blue… not her best features, even on a good day, and she did not look like someone who’d had any good days lately.

Yet those round, pale eyes were still wary and attentive, seeing more than most would suspect, and her hand was still steady on the bowl as she sat porridge, bread and ale before her husband. Despite being considerably wealthier than their tenant, the locksmith, the Aurifabers preferred a simple fare on simple days. Or Walter Aurifaber did in any case, and it was said he’d found a strong ally in his daughter-in-law. Daniel Aurifaber might have disagreed, but in the double grip of his father _and_ his wife, there was precious little he could do about it.

Indeed, there was some proprietary pride in the manner with which Margery handled the Aurifaber property… or her own husband, for that matter. She’d practically owned Daniel since that black day when she’d helped him prove his innocence in the murdering of Baldwin Peche; and while she was a loyal and dutiful wife, she was also one who collected her debts. Hers was a privileged place in one of the wealthiest households of the entire town – no wonder that she was worried about losing it due to her still childless state.

Those pale, observant eyes of hers turned to John Boneth with mild surprise. Unlike in Susanna’s times, who would often bring to the locksmith’s leftovers that would not serve as another meal on the next day, contacts between the two households had become sparse in the previous year. John might be his own master now, but for the former Margery Bele, the wealthy wool-merchant’s girl, he was still not an equal.

They greeted each other civilly enough when meeting in the back yard by accident. They perchance even spoke a few words whenever John went into the Aurifaber house to pay his rent, but that was all that there was. For him, to come to Daniel Aurifaber’s workshop at such an early hour, and uninvited, at that, was fairly unusual indeed. Unusual enough to stir Margery’s curiosity, even though she paid little to no attention to the locksmith’s business as a rule.

“That was quite a ruckus in your shop this morning,” she commented lightly, but her eyes remained cool and suspicious. “What happened? Have you been robbed?”

John shook his head. “Nay; all I had were – well, still _are_ – a couple of unexpected guests. Unlucky ones in great need.”

“And like the sensible fellow that you are, you took them in, of course,” Daniel Aurifaber said with barely veiled irony.

John shrugged. “ _Somebody_ had to,” he replied dryly.

Daniel Aurifaber looked up from his workbench with a smug expression on his handsome face.

“You should not let strangers into the house so easily,” he said, laying his tools to the side and reaching for his breakfast with a considerable lack of appreciation. “They might rob you when you or that daft boy of yours aren’t looking.”

“Mayhap so,” replied John easily. “But these are no strangers, not fully so. After all, Rannilt used to live in this very house all her life. Small wonder she would return here when in need. ‘Tis the only home she has ever known.”

The young goldsmith and his wife exchanged looks of surprise.

“Rannilt?” Daniel finally asked. “She has come back? Has that miserable wretch of a husband she left with thrown her over, after all? I always knew he was no good for anything.”

“And as always, you were very wrong,” answered John coldly. “He hasn’t thrown her over; just as he didn’t strike and rob your father on your wedding dinner… for which you would have been willing to kill him, you and your drunken friends. Nay, he stayed true to his wife, and nearly got himself killed to protect her from the brigands of the road. He is now lying in my shop, badly injured, waiting for Brother Cadfael to tend to his hurts.”

“Shrewsbury truly seems to bring bad luck for that poor man,” said Margery with cool, detached pity. “But what does their harsh fate have to do with us? She chose to leave with him, and we let her go… and that at a time when in die need of a maidservant, too. We owe her nothing.”

“That is true,” admitted John. “And yet she remembered you kindness towards them, Mistress, and came back in the hope that you would have mercy with her again. Her husband has lost his tools and his instrument when attacked, and they have no patron for the winter. Without a place to stay, they will both die. He still may, roughed up as he is, and as she is with child…”

Margery Aurifaber’s expression hardened at once, and John berated himself for not having chosen his words more carefully. Alas, while most people would agree that he was a good, decent man, even he had to admit that subtlety was not his forte. He had not planned to blurt out the truth about Rannilt’s pregnant state like that, but as often before, he’d failed to find the right moment to present it.

Well, not it was out in the open, and he had to make the best of it. Unfortunately for Rannilt, there was very little that could be done. As he had foreseen, the thought about her being with child did naught to ease Mistress Aurifaber’s feelings towards her.

“Our house is not some rich manor where a wandering conjuror could sit out the winter,” said Margery coldly. “Not that any lord would take him in now that he could not even entertain his patron. And what use would a maidservant be for the household when she might be giving birth any time? Besides we don’t _need_ a maidservant. We already _have_ one – and one who can value her good fortune and won’t leave with the first vagabond who might catch her eye.”

John knew the Aurifabers’ new maidservant, of course, had seen her often enough from the window of his shop. A penniless widow from the Foregate she was, well beyond her first youth, soundly frightened into obedience by her violent husband, who’d used to beat her for the slightest failing… and used to labouring from dawn till dusk. She would never dare to stand up for herself in the face of her mistress.

The brothers of her late husband had driven her out of their little cottage, and she was eternally grateful to the Aurifabers indeed, for having a roof above her head and a frugal meal each day. She was wiry and durable and a hard worker; ‘twas true that Margery would not need another maidservant as long as she had her. Until she worked her into an early grave, that is.

“And yet charity is approved of in Heaven,” said John quietly. “Or so you say often yourself, Mistress.”

“That I do,” allowed Margery, “and I am charitable enough, I think, if I may say so myself. But this is the house of a respected master craftsman, not some shelter for the homeless vagabond of the road. There _are_ places that serve such purpose, though; and since the monks seem to be so fond of Rannilt’s juggler, I’m certain they will allow them to sit out the winter in St. Giles.”

Such a cold statement shook even Daniel Aurifaber to the bone, albeit he wasn’t the most sensitive soul in town.

“But St. Giles is no place to have a child!” he protested. “’Tis a refuge for the crippled, the lepers, the beggars and the infirm… all sorts of vagabonds come there to find shelter and help for their sores.”

“Which makes it exactly the right place for two people who _live_ on the road,” retorted Margery coldly. “They have no place in a decent burgher’s house, and I would be grateful, Master Boneth, if you didn’t bother me with this unfortunate matter again.”

John gave her a long, piercing look.

“If charity is approved of in Heaven,” he said quietly, “I wonder how such coldness of heart would be judged before Our Lord’s throne. For ‘tis also said that we reap that which we’ve sown… I wish for you, Mistress, that your harvest would be a blessed one – even though I do have my doubts about it now.”

With that, he turned on his heals and left the Aurifabers alone. There was naught to hope from them for Rannilt and her unfortunate husband… just as he had foreseen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rannilt was devastated by such bad news, of course. Despite John’s warnings, she had truly believed that Mistress Aurifaber would have mercy with them, after all, and now that her last hope had been shattered, she was despairing. Liliwin, although more used to rejections – he had barely known aught else all his life – was close to despairing, too.

“’Tis not myself I’m worried for,” he whispered. “If it were only me, I’d gladly go to St. Giles. The brothers who serve there are kind and generous, I heard. But what will become of Rannilt? She cannot raise our child there, among the lepers, the disfigured… when I die, what will become of her?”

That he said _when_ , not _if_ , clearly showed that he’d given up hope already. But John was not ready to give up on them just yet.

“Do not lose all hope, the two of you,” he chastised them. “You still have friends in this town; I know I’m not the only one who cares. First we must see that you are cleaned up and your injuries are treated,” he added, looking at Liliwin. “Hopefully, Brother Cadfael is already on his way.”

“What good will that do to me… to us?” asked Liliwin. “They would never allow Rannilt to be on my side in their Infirmary…”

“Nor is there need for that,” answered John firmly. “You can both stay here for the time being. The room in which Master Peche used to live is mostly empty; although I pay for it, I hardly ever use it. You can stay there until you get better. After that, we shall see what might be done for you.”

To so much kindness Rannilt couldn’t even find the right answer. For a moment, John was afraid she’d want to kiss his hand in gratitude; fortunately, her natural shyness prevented her from making such exuberant gestures. There was truly no need for something like that.

“I’m only doing what all decent people would do,” he said, summarily excluding the Aurifabers from the circle of decent people with that statement, without even realizing it. “I cannot let you have your child somewhere on the roadside… or in some stable, as Our Lady was forced to give birth to the Saviour. Be at peace and rest, you both need it badly. I must get some of my work done in the meantime, but if you need anything, be not afraid to ask.”

Rannilt nodded wordlessly, her dark eyes enormous in her thin face and shining with unshed tears. She made herself as comfortable as she could at her husband’s bedside, holding Liliwin’s limp hand, her chapped lips moving in mute prayer.

John returned to his workbench. There was not much he could do, with these two underfoot and Griffin gone to the abbey to fetch Brother Cadfael. This was going to be another long night, working away at the dim light of the oil lamp, to make up for all the lost time, he thought with a suppressed sigh. His mother, always concerned about his well-being, would _not_ be happy.

Perchance the idea of having to feed another two hungry mouths would not appeal to her, either. Not that she would be a greedy person – she was the one John had learned how to be generous from, after all – but she had a very practical mind. Taking in these two would seem unreasonable to her, while there was St Giles to shelter such people… and from the practical point of view, she would even be right. Two more people, _and_ a newborn, soon, _would_ put a strain on their household. They were doing better than they had in the previous years, but they were still far from being wealthy.

And yet John knew he could not have acted differently. Setting out these wounded birds would be cruel, and while he was certainly no saint, deliberate cruelty was not part of his nature. Neither was it part of his mother’s nature. She would grumble and would berate him about the matter, but eventually, she’d come around, John knew that. In the end, she could never resist pampering those who needed to be pampered.

And who knew, perhaps she would take a liking to Rannilt and take her in as a maidservant for good. They did not truly _need_ one, but as the business was going well enough, they could _afford_ to have one. His mother would do well with less work to do all on her own, and Rannilt’s immediate future would be secured.

Of course, that still left open the question what to do with Liliwin, should he recover at all. But John decided to worry about _that_ later. Right now, he had a great deal of work to do, and not nearly enough time to get it done.


	2. Fallen from God's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** My heartfelt go thanks to [](http://ithilwen.livejournal.com/profile)[**ithilwen**](http://ithilwen.livejournal.com/) , who helped me with the medical parts of this chapter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER TWO – FALLEN FROM GOD'S HAND**

Brother Cadfael emerged from Prime full of thirst for some good, honest work that would keep all his strength occupied and distract his worried mind from the concerns of the outside world. After breakfast in the refectory, he made his way across the great court with the slow, rolling gait of the seaman he once had been. As he rounded the thick, dark mass of the box hedge, he noted that it had grown straggly already – ripe for the final clipping before growth would cease in the cold of winter.  
  
Cadfael walked through the flower gardens, beyond which his own herb garden lay, walled and silent, with the small, square beds drifting off to winter sleep, despite the uncustomary mildness of late autumn. A faint echo of the summer’s spicy fragrances could still be perceived in this well-hidden little sanctuary, though, drifting out from the open door of the modest timber hut that served as his workshop, where bouquets of dried herbs swung from the eaves and beams within.

Cadfael looked around in his private little realm, considering what he should do first. Some of the mint was still left standing, waiting to be harvested, and the rest of thyme, too, lay flattened to the ground. But other than those, the herbal beds were all but empty.

There was much to do in the main gardens, though. The rough digging needed to be done before the frosts would come, and the fruit trees in the small orchard had to be pruned before Christmas. The two pease fields beyond the fish ponds, where they ran down the slope of the Meole Brook, had long since been harvested, and the roots ploughed back into the soil, but there was still a small mountain of ripened and tempered manure from the stable yards and the byres that needed to be spread on the main butts and the rose beds, the latter of which wore their usual, somewhat rugged autumn look.

The kitchen garden, too, had been cleared of its crops, and lay now weedy and trampled, waiting for the spade. Add the ploughing of the Gaye, which, fortunately, was Brother Bernard’s daunting task, and even the casual observer would realize that there was work enough for a dozen people.

Cadfael looked forward to the tasks at hand with mild trepidation. While the novices and young brothers, the miraculously healed Brother Rhun before all, were supposed to help with the autumn labour, and did so with respectable eagerness, he had not been assigned a new apprentice yet. Not since Brother Oswin had left the abbey a couple of months ago, to take over the care for St. Giles. And while Oswin had been a mite ham-fisted when handling the delicate clay dishes and glass bottles of Cadfael’s workshop, and had an unfortunate tendency to burn boiling tinctures beyond help, his considerable strength would be sorely missed in the gardens when it came to the rough work with the spade.

With a resigned sigh, Cadfael turned into his workshop to check on the single wine-jar that he had set boiling right after Lauds. He found it gently bubbling as it was supposed to do, and thus he turned to the batch of small white lozenges that were drying on a marble slab, to see if they were ready for the use yet – which they were not. It would take at least another hour or two for them to dry completely and thus could be put away.

Not finding any other excuse, he readied himself to begin digging up the kitchen garden, when someone haltingly knocked on the half-open door. Looking up, he spotted the locksmith’s daft boy, Griffith… no, Griffin, standing in the doorframe and staring with round-eyed, open-mouthed awe at the array of bottles, jars and flagons on the shelves, the rustling bouquets of dried herbs overhead, the small brass scales and stone mortars on the working table, the little wooden bowls of medicinal roots waiting for use, and all the other mysterious tools and remedies only another herbalist could have recognized.

“What can I do for you, Griffin, my lad?” asked Cadfael kindly. For as much as worshippers from the town were welcome to the abbey church, he doubted that the boy would have come to dawn Mass, even if he hadn’t been wearing his work garb.

His voice seemed to have startled the boy, as he began to stutter at once, as always when frightened or excited.

“B… brother, M… master B… boneth asks you t… to come t… to his shop, He said it’s… it’s very urgent.”

“Slow down, lad,” said Cadfael soothingly, “and do tell me _why_ I would be needed. I cannot come and go as I please. If I were to leave the abbey grounds, I would need Father Abbot’s leave first. Now, tell me more about the matter, would you?”

His kind words calmed down the boy a great deal; perchance very few people were so patient with him. John Boneth certainly, of that Cadfael was sure, but not many others.

“R… rannilt has come back,” explained Griffin, his speech patterns evening out considerably. “She and her husband. He’s b… badly hurt, though… needs medicine… and she, she might give b… birth any day.”

“Liliwin is back?” Cadfael asked in surprise.

He could still remember all too well how he had seen the wandering young juggler for the first time: a miserable fragment of a man, lying upon his face up the step of the parish altar, flattened beneath a surge of trampling, battering foes, soiled and crumpled and bloodied, and no bigger than a boy of fifteen summers. Gripping the fringes of the altar-cloth for dear life. And around him, jostling and hopping and clamouring, a drunken crowd of otherwise decent craftsmen, merchants and traders, howling for his blood for a crime he had _not_ committed.

It had not been a scene anyone could easily forget. Cadfael, who had tended to the poor man’s injuries afterwards, even less inclined to do so than others.

“What happened to the lad this time?” he asked regretfully, for he knew well enough the world outside the abbey walls and could guess, but he needed to know for certain.

The daft boy shrugged.

“Robbed and b… beaten, right b… before the t… town gate, they say,” he answered. Then, with the unexpected wisdom of one whose mind only burdened itself with matters of true importance, he added. “The road is a d… dangerous p… place for the weak.”

“Alas, that is very true,” said Cadfael, and he began to collect the things he would need to treat the unfortunate minstrel again, assuming he could get leave from his abbot to do so. He stuffed into his scrip a flask of wine, a jar with the ointment of centaury and cleavers, a roll of clean linens, some spices to mull the wine with and so on.

“I shall go to Father Abbot now and ask him for permission to leave the abbey grounds,” he then said to the boy. “You should run back to your master, my good lad, and see that I have clean water aplenty when I arrive, and a bowl in which to wash my rags while cleaning the wounds.”

Griffin readily promised to do as he had been asked, and off he was, not exactly running, but still at a fairly good speed, thank to his long legs and purposeful strides. He was an important person now, entrusted with an important task – who could blame him for shamelessly enjoying it?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Abbot Radulfus was sitting in the parlour of his own lodging, taking care of some overdue correspondence with the help of Brother Vitalis, his most trusted chaplain and clerk, before Terce. His mind, however, was meandering off to different paths entirely. He was preoccupied with the concerns of the outside world for a change, and with the role the Church had played in the ongoing kin-strife between King Stephen and the Empress Maud. A bitter and bloody conflict that had been slowly shredding the country to pieces for four years already, with no indication for settling the matter peacefully, on either side.

Particularly the shifting loyalties of Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester had caused him much concern and headache in the recent year. The behaviour of the papal legate, who should have perserved the infallibility of both Pope and Church at all costs, could have reflected badly on the entire clergy. Unfortunately, Henry of Blois had turned out to be a most unsteady ally, to both the empress and his own brother, and the bishops and abbots of the legatine council had to assist to his contained coat-turning helplessly.

It had only been half a year ago that he had summoned them to Winchester, on the seventh of April, to justify his endorsement of the Empress Maud as a ruler. At that time, she had been ascendant and keeping Stephen in prison in Bristol – and Bishop de Blois understandably worried about his own safety and position.

Now however, that his royal brother was free again, and the city of London had practically cast the empress out, his reverence was preparing himself to swing back to Stephen – who would have no other choince than to take him back, even if with gritted teeth, as his position was too important for both parties to dismiss him entirely.

To justify this new turnaround, the papal legate had apparently found it necessary to call another legatine council, this time at Westminster, on the seventh of December. The official writ had just arrived a day ago, and Radulfus knew there was no way for him to avoid it, even though there were enough outstanding matters within the abbey that would require his attention.

“I loathe to leave right now, when Father Adam is ailing and might leave his flock unguided any day,” he said to Brother Vitalis, “but like all matters of consideration, the selection of a possible successor, should Our Lord summon him home in the near future, must wait for my return. ‘Tis the business of the Church to continue to strive – even to hope, if possible, despite everything that might be going on in the outside world.”

Brother Vitalis saw no reason to answer, as his abbot was very right, of course. The affairs of the land seemed to have reverted to the same point where the civil war had begun, and there was a sound possibility that the whole unfortunate cycle would be reverted all over again, with luck shifting capriciously from King to Empress and back, neither of them strong enough to win, yet neither of them willing to admit defeat. And the common folk would continue to suffer.

Abbot Radulfus sighed, signed the document before him, sealed it and set it aside. He was reaching out for the next one, when there was a knock on the door, and at his call in came Brother Cadfael, with a full scrip already hung around his shoulder.

“Father Abbot,” he said deferentially, a sentiment that came naturally when speaking to Radulfus, yet not when he had to face Prior Robert, unfortunately. “I must ask for your leave to go into the town again.”

Radulfus gave him a piercing look. Unlike Prior Robert, who would not cease complaining about the allowances granted to Brother Cadfael, the abbot knew well enough what a gift for the house – and for him personally – the herb-master was. Knowing the outside world as well as the demands of cloistered life, Brother Cadfael had a unique view of things, and as a late-comer to the cloister, regarded all too human weakness with tolerant understanding. All this did _not_ bode well with Prior Robert and his faithful, over-zealous shadow, Brother Jerome, of course, but Radulfus found those past experiences useful and was willing to look the other way from time to time, when Cadfael bent the Rule a little to get a good deed done.

Never for himself. But without hesitation, if there were innocents – or, indeed, repenting sinners – who needed his help.

“I assume you have a patient in town,” said the abbot with a fleeting glance at Cadfael’s full scrip. Cadfael nodded.

“Indeed, Father, I have. I believe you still remember Liliwin, the minstrel, who sought sanctuary in our church when a drunken crowd tried to kill him for nothing.”

Radulfus nodded. He was a man who rarely forgot anything of importance. But even men with less acute memory would not forget the disruption of midnight service by such an unholy event as a man-hunt.

“He married the Aurifaber’s little maidservant after proving his innocence, has he not?” he asked.

Cadfael nodded again. “That he did, Father. And now he seems to be back in town, beaten up badly again, and his wife with child that can be born any day… or so the locksmith’s daft lad tells me.”

Radulfus was not born in Shrewsbury, nor had he grown up there, but he had been abbot of St Peter and Paul long enough to know the respected craftsmen of the town. Or the less-respected ones, for that matter.

“So, young John Boneth had mercy with them and took them in,” he said. “I’m not surprised; he’s said to be a decent man. I wonder, though, why they would turn to him in the first place. In a wealthier household, they could have hoped for more, I deem.”

“I believe the girl would try to find help from the Aurifabers first,” replied Cadfael, coming very close to the truth, without knowing it. “But with Susanna gone, no-one else there would care whether she lived or died. And John Boneth just could not let them die on the roadside.”

“A commendable deed,” said the abbot. “The world needs more people like him; perhaps there would be less suffering and grief. Is it known what happened to those two?”

“Griffin says they were attacked by brigands,” explained Cadfael. “Sadly, not a rare occurrence in these unruly days. Although what any brigands might have hoped to find by such poor wretches, I cannot say.”

“Whatever it was, ‘tis disheartening to know it happened so close to the town,” said Radulfus. “Hugh Beringar should hear about this – assuming he’s come back from Maesbury already.”

“He has,” replied Cadfael, “although he’s left Aline and their son by his mother’s family for a while yet.”

“Then you should talk to him,” advised the abbot. “You will have to walk by his house along the Doggepol on your way back as it is. He might want to look into the matter and deal with those brigands. He’d wish the roads in and out of the town to be safe.”

“This,” said Cadfael, “would have been the other thing I was about to ask permission for.”

“I know,” Radulfus smiled faintly. “Which is why I spared you the effort. Go with God, Brother Cadfael. And bring me some answers upon your return.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
By the time Cadfael reached the Aurifaber burgage, John and Griffin had moved Liliwin into the long-since unused room of the late Baldwin Peche. They had even found some clean bedlinen in a chest to bed him, and an old byrchan to cover him with, making him as comfortable ad possible in his current state.

“Griffin and I must work hard for the rest of the day,” John explained apologetically, “for we have lost much time already. Master Bellecote cannot finish his coffins without these hinges we are working on; and the provost needs his new set of keys before the next saint’s memorial day stops all work again. But Rannilt sits with him and looks after him as well as she can.”

“Son,” replied Cadfael heartily, “you have already done more than what could be expected from a mere bystander. Return to your work in peace and leave your guest to me. As long as I have enough clean water to use, I shan’t need aught else.”

“I’ve placed two pails and a large bowl in the room, brother,” said Griffin eagerly, speaking calmly and fluently now that he was back to the place where he felt safe and at home. “Just call me if you need more.”

“That I shall certainly do,” replied Cadfael placidly and went to see his patient.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The first fleeting glance at that shivering, meagre figure under the late Master Peche’s worn byrchan revealed to him that Liliwin was in a much worse shape than he had been at their first meeting, a year and a half back. He’d been trampled and hacked again, and this time he might not have gotten away without broken bones, perhaps not even without broken ribs. If his painful winces at the slightest movement were any indication. Cadfael was especially worried by the way his breath was heaving and labouring and clapping in his ribs, toiling for dear life, threatening to break his flat chest apart. If he had bruised, or, God beware, punctured a lung, that could have fatal consequences.

Rannilt was sitting at his bedside, a fragile waif of a girl still, wrapped in her threadbare homespun; her hair had come apart and hung tangled over bony shoulders. She seemed even smaller and thinner than Cadfael had her in memory; as if the child she was carrying had more weight and substance than she would. But her hand did not tremble as she washed the bruised, bloodied cheeks of her husband, and the expression on her grubby little face was that of serene devotion. Whatever the cruel world might have done to them, these two clearly still loved each other very much.

Liliwin was either unconscious or asleep, ‘twas hard to tell. But Rannilt had felt rather than heard Cadfael’s approach, and as she looked up, she recognized him, and her dark eyes became bright with hope again.

“Brother, ‘tis you!” she said quietly. “How good of you to have come to our aid again! You _can_ heal him, can’t you?”

“That I shan’t be able to tell just yet,” admitted Cadfael honestly, laying down his unguent-jar and his linens. “Not before I had examined him thoroughly. But do tell me, child, what evil did befall you on the road? Why would anyone wish to rob you, of all people? You could hardly have aught on you that would stir up the greed of even the most desperate of footpads.”

“’Twas not greed,” answered Rannilt, trembling with the very memory of it, “’twas pure malice. I have not told Master Boneth about it, for it would be no use. Our word would be against theirs, and no-one would believe _us_.”

“Your word against whose?” Cadfael prompted.

Rannilt shrugged her thin shoulders. “I know not their names. I was rarely left out the Aurifaber house any further than to the abbey or the market, and that mostly in Mistress Susanna’s company. But Liliwin recognized two of them. They were among those who’ve nearly beaten him to death the last time,” her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t understand it. All knew that Liliwin was innocent in what they had accused him of.”

But Cadfael understood it all too well. There had not been Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding guests only in that crowd that had hunted Liliwin across town. There had also been the usual riff-raff, always ready for any brawl, most likely joining the man-hunt along the way. And while the decent traders and craftsmen had repented and done their best to ease their consciences by the way of small gifts, the riff-raff apparently had not taken the loss of their prey kindly, innocent or otherwise. They must have been waiting for the chance to get the hands on the minstrel ever since.

No footpads, then, but the very people of the town that had already wronged the young man once. Father Abbot had been right. Hugh Beringar needed to hear about this, now more than before. There was one thing he still did not understand, though.

“I wonder how they found you,” he said. “They could not know in advance that you were coming, could they?”

“They may have,” answered Rannilt thoughtfully. “We’ve been in the neighbourhood for weeks by now, travelling on foot from manor to manor around Shrewsbury, hoping to find a patron for the winter. But when they saw that I was with child and so close to giving birth, no-one wanted to take us in. So we decided to come back to the town, seeing if we’d have more luck here. We met many people in those weeks… and word travels around.”

“That is true,” agreed Cadfael. “And so they’d waylaid you shortly before the town gate?”

Rannilt nodded. “They… they laughed at us… called us useless leeches who’d live off other people’s pocket, without doing any honest work,” she said with bitter amusement, for who’d have laboured longer and harder than she’d done all her life in the Aurifaber house? “They… they wanted to roughen me up… so that I’d lose the child… said that Shrewsbury had no need for more parasites like us…”

She was now trembling uncontrollably, so much so that Cadfael was afraid she’d go into belated shock from reliving those horrid moments. It took her a while before she’d be able to speak again.

“Liliwin told me to run into the trees framing the road, so that they’d lose track on me,” she finally continued. “We’ve already lost one child, when I took a heavy fall last summer… Liliwin tried to hold them back, but there were four of them, all bigger and much stronger than him… I knew they’d kill him, but I had to save the child…”

“So you ran,” Cadfael finished for her. She nodded.

“’Tis easy to hide among the bushes if you’re small and thin and stay very, very quiet… and they were quite drunk,” she replied. “After a while, they gave up and left Liliwin behind, thinking he was dead.”

“And the two of you dared to enter the town after this?” Cadfael marvelled.

“We had no other choice,” she answered simply. “We needed help; and this was the closest place where we could go. I hoped they would not dare to touch us again in the house of a respected burgher.”

“But you had to learn that charity from the rich only goes so far,” Cadfael finished. “They may hand you down worn clothes they no longer have use for themselves; they may even give you a frugal meal to ease their conscience. Yet when it would come to take in weary travellers, or even more so wounded ones, it often ceases on their doorstep.”

Rannilt nodded and began to cry, as quietly as she did everything else. “I knew not what else we could do,” she said between muffled sobs. “Had Master Boneth not opened his door for us…”

“John Boneth is a decent young man,” agreed Cadfael. “Now, take a heart, child, and let me examine your husband thoroughly. I shall do all that is in my power to help him.”

With Rannilt’s help, he pulled off the threadbare shirt of the young man, revealing a spare, badly bruised torso. He laid his palm upon Liliwin’s chest, mindful of ribs that might be broken, trying to find out the extent of the damage by touch. He did not like what he found.

“He has some badly broken ribs,” he told Rannilt. “I was planning to take him to St. Giles, where he’d have been taken care of, but I do not dare to move him, after all. If he moves wrong, one of the broken ribs could stab his lung and puncture it, leading to his demise.”

“What shall we do then?” asked Rannilt, terrified by that news.

“The best thing we can do is to leave him here and move him as little as we can,” answered Cadfael. “His kidneys may have been bruised, too. Some of those kicks were clearly aimed with the very intention of damaging them. But unless he’s bleeding in the inside, I still hope that he’ll live.”

“Tell me what to do!” begged Rannilt. “I shall treat him as best as I can… _if_ Master Boneth allows us to stay here until Liliwin grows strong enough to be moved.”

“He won’t throw you out onto the road, of that I’m certain,” said Cadfael soothingly. “I shall talk to him later. Now, let’s see what I can do for Liliwin first.”

He worked for the better part of an hour, treating the bruises of the young minstrel, dressing his wounds and wrapping his chest with the utmost care, so that he would not cause any further damage to the already broken ribs. Then he left some medical remedies and detailed instructions with Rannilt and off he was, promising to come back in the evening.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“I shall go to see Hugh Beringar over this,” he told John Boneth, who interrupted his work for a moment to see him to the door. “If what Rannilt tells me is true, and I see no reason why she’d lie, those were no mere footpads, out for booty… such as could have been found by two penniless wanderers. They wanted to kill – or at least beat badly – these two, specifically.”

“But what have they done to raise such anger and hatred against themselves?” wondered John.

“As far as I can say, nothing,” replied Cadfael with a sigh. “It seems, though, that some people did not like the fact that Liliwin came away more or less unharmed last year, after Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding, and tried to right that mistake. Rannilt says Liliwin has recognized some of them.”

“It was quite the rowdy crowd,” John agreed. “I only saw them from afar, but…” he shrugged. “Nonetheless, I would never have trusted them to go after the poor wretch in cold blood.”

“Well, I must go,” said Cadfael. “I only wanted to warn you; if they are out for blood, they may not make halt before your door.”

“Worry not, Brother,” answered John, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I shall keep your little sparrows safe. No-one comes through this door, unless Griffin or I say so.”

“I shall ask Hugh to send one of his men over, just to be sure no-one gets any foolish ideas,” promised Cadfael. “You may be able to keep them safe till nightfall, but there is no need to take unnecessary risks.”

John nodded in agreement and returned to his work. Cadfael left the Aurifaber property and hesitated for a moment how to continue. It all depended on where Hugh might be at the moment: in the Castle or in his own town house. The two places lay in opposite directions from the Aurifaber burgage, and Cadfael didn’t want to lose valuable time, considering how much work was still waiting for him back in the abbey gardens.

He was just about to look for someone who would run an errand for him when he spotted a big, burly, bearded man of middle age walking down from the Castle: Will Warden, Hugh’s sergeant. The grizzled, weather-beaten man was the oldest, most experienced and longest-serving of the sheriff’s officers – whoever the sheriff might be. He’d already served under Gilbert Prestcote, an adjusted to Hugh Beringar’s different kind of leadership well enough, after the first weeks of wary observation. He had a solid conceit of himself that sometimes tended to undervalue others, but he’d also come to respect Cadfael’s opinions during the recent years, due to all the murder cases they had both worked on with Hugh.

Therefore he greeted Cadfael heartily enough and explained him that Hugh had returned to his townhouse to collect some documents for a message he wanted to send to the king. They spoke with each other for a short time, Cadfael carefully asking about the people who’d taken part in the manhunt a year earlier. Will Warden counted a few names on his fingers but couldn’t remember them all.

“There _is_ a reason you’re asking all these questions, Brother, isn’t there?” he asked shrewdly. Cadfael shrugged.

“For now, ‘tis but a suspicion, Sergeant. When it becomes more, I’m certain that Hugh will tell you everything you need to know.”

That placated the sergeant for the time being, and he went on on his errand. Cadfael walked back the way he had come: down the High Street to St. Mary’s Church, ‘til the low gate through which one passed at the lover end of the Doggepol. There he rounded the corner and came to Hugh Beringar’s house that stood off St. Mary’s Street, near the timber-framed building of the _Drapers’ Guild_.

The stone house had an arched gateway, with torches fastened to the wall on both sides (even though they were not burning at the moment), and with a closed, wooden balcony above the heavy oak gate. On the right side, there was a low stone column, with an iron ring driven into its side, to which unexpected visitors could bind their horses while going after their business with the master of the house.

Cadfael went to the gate briskly and rang the bell. It took but moments ‘til one of the heavy wings swung open and revealed the smiling face of Jehan, Hugh’s manservant.

“Brother Cadfael!” the young man greeted him, clearly pleased. “’Tis good to see you again! You’re lucky, though; Lord Beringar has just come home a short time ago.”

“I know,” Cadfael replied placidly. “I spoke to Will Warden. Now would it be possible for me to see your master at once? I’m on serious business here, and fear it cannot wait.”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain that Lord Beringar will have time for you, Brother,” Jehan opened the gate wider to let him into the cobbled courtyard. “If you’ll wait in the parlour while I fetch him…”

Cadfael found the thought of resting his aging bones for a moment a pleasant one. While he was quite robust for his age, strangely enough it was the unusually mild weather like they were having it now that sometimes made his joints rebel. Not very often yet, but often enough to remind him that he wasn’t a youth of twenty summers anymore.

Thus he gladly made himself comfortable in the familiar parlour, and was contemplating the fact how much darker it seemed without Aline’s bright presence, when the door opened again and in strode the master of the house, with light, almost bouncing steps as always. A young man, who could have been Cadfael’s son age-wise, but who’d become a close and dear friend instead, despite the differences of age and experience lying between them.

A lightweight man he was, the deputy sheriff of Shropshire, of middle height and slender build, dark of hair and eye, with thin, alert features and a sardonic smile that revealed nothing, unless he wanted so. Right now, his saturnine face was alight with pleasure upon seeing his old friend.

“Cadfael!” he said, patting the bald patch in the middle of the monk’s grizzled tonsure affectionately. “What brings you to me in this ungodly hour? Is it about the man and his little wife who’ve been attacked by footpads last night?”

Cadfael didn’t ask how Hugh could already have learned about it. The young man had an amazing network of gossip traders in the town and was usually the first to learn about anything that happened within the walls – or outside of them, for that matter.

“It is,” he replied, “But those were no footpads, I fear.”

The smile vanished from Hugh’s face as if wiped away with a wet cloth.

“I suggest you tell me everything you know,” he said, sitting down and focusing his attention on the visitor.

And Cadfael did exactly that. Starting with recalling the events of Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding and the consequences of them, some of which Hugh had experienced first-hand, up to the current day and to the disturbing things he had learned from Rannilt.

As Hugh listened to him, those sharp, dark eyes of his became even darker with anger and sorrow.

“You are right,” he said. “We must look into this matter without delay – ere something worse happens. I must say, though, that I’d prefer to deal with brigands.”

“So would I,” admitted Cadfael, “’Tis saddening to know that people of our own town would do such a hideous thing… and get away with it unpunished. I’m all for showing mercy towards a repentant sinner, but these people… they’re worse than wolves.”

“Saddening, yet understandable,” said Hugh grimly. For is it not the same that they see all over the country? Are not even the nobles, indeed, the princes of the Church, shifting loyalties, forfeiting their oaths and betraying those they’ve sworn fealty but a short time ago? Aren’t always the weak who must pay dearly for the fancies of the strong?”

“This still doesn’t make what those people did right,” replied Cadfael, uncompromisingly. Hugh nodded.

“Of course not. And I shall look into the matter, I promise. We need evidence, though; the juggler’s testimony alone won’t be enough. He’s not from here; his attackers apparently _are_. Whom, do you think, people will believe? Someone they’ve known since birth or a vagabond who’s already caused trouble in town? Few will remember that he was innocent in that trouble, after all.”

“ _You_ will remember,” Cadfael countered, “and that is what counts. Unless the king chooses to replace you, which I fervently hope he won’t do, your word is the law in Shrewsbury.”

“Then bring me hard evidence!” said Hugh. “Will Warden’ll do his best to investigate the case, but he does not have your keen eye for detail… or your vexed interest in the well-being of the victims. And I cannot investigate myself, if I wish to appear a neutral party in this, or else people won’t trust my judgement.”

“I shall do what’s in my power,” promised Cadfael. “For the beginning, I can give you this: Liliwin’s wooden rings and the painted balls he does his tricks with are gone, taken by the attackers. So is his rebec, the one Brother Anselm has repaired for him. Look out for these items; they might lead us to the culprits.”

“That’s a step in the right direction,” Hugh agreed. “I shall ask Will Warden to keep his eyes open. Is there aught else you’d like to point out to me?”

“One more thing,” said Cadfael. “For now, the two are safe under John Boneth’s protection. But when John returns to his mother’s house for the night, there will be only the daft boy between them and anyone who’d want to finish what they’ve begun.”

“You think they’ll try it again?” asked Hugh doubtfully. “In the middle of the town itself?”

“As I said: they’re like wolves,” answered Cadfael grimly. “Twice has their prey already slipped through their claws, albeit not unharmed. They won’t let him escape a third time. Think about it: they tried to beat an unborn child out of its mother’s body… do you truly believe they’d allow John Boneth’s generosity to stop them?”

“No, I fear they would not,” Hugh shook his head in dismay. “I shall send two soldiers to watch the house tonight. As for tomorrow and the days after… we will see. Much depends on what you and Will may find out. I count on you in particular – people would tell you things they’d never tell my sergeant.”

“Very good,” said Cadfael. “Well, I must go. I’ve been away from my work long enough, and Father Abbot would wish to learn all about that which happened.”

“Go,” Hugh agreed, „but tell me at once, should you learn anything that may be useful to bring light into our case. I shall do the same.”

“You will find me in John Boneth’s shop between Vespers and Compline, assuming Father Abbot gives me leave to check on my patient,” said Cadfael. “Hopefully, we’ll know more by then.”


	3. Puer Natus Est Nobis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Acknowledgement:** My heartfelt go thanks to [](http://ithilwen.livejournal.com/profile)[**ithilwen**](http://ithilwen.livejournal.com/) , who helped me with the medical parts of this chapter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER THREE – PUER NATUS EST NOBIS**

The following days brought little to no change. Hugh Beringar had his men keep a discreet eye on John Boneth’s shop, just in case, and sent out his “eyes and ears”, as he called his finely-knotted network of informants, to beat around the bushes, in the hope that they might find some telling signs of the minstrel’s attackers.

So far, they had learned nothing. Whoever had been responsible for the cruel and cowardly attack, the outrage all over the town must have made them careful. People might not have particularly cared about a wandering minstrel, but learning that someone had tied to beat an unborn child to death while still in the mother’s womb had shocked every well-meaning man and woman within the town walls… or in the Foregate, for that matter.

Understandably enough, no-one had boasted with the attempt of riding Shrewsbury of the “parasites” – not yet. But Hugh was a patient man. He knew that after the first outrage had settled down, someone _would_ slip something. And _then_ he would get his prey. ‘Til then, he could wait. The culprits were from the town itself; they would not go anywhere.  
  
With Abbot Radulfus’ permission, Cadfael visited the locksmith’s shop daily, to see how his patients were doing. He found that Rannilt was slowly gaining back her strength, despite the additional burden of being due to give birth any day now. She might be small and thin, but she was used to a harsh life – she had never known aught else, after all, and she had always been deceptively strong.

She tried to make herself useful, keeping the shop and the sleeping chamber now used by them clean and well-ordered whenever Liliwin was slumbering. She would have offered to cook for John and his lad, but was afraid to offend Mistress Boneth, whose main goal in life _was_ to take care of her son. But she did wash the clothes of the boy Griffin and saw that he would be presentable, whenever he had to leave the shop on some errand of his master.

In the rest of the time, she was sitting at Liliwin’s bedside. She’d grown almost grotesquely big with child, within a few short days – or perhaps it only seemed so, as she was so very slight. Buts he seemed content enough with her own fate… if only she hadn’t had to worry about Liliwin so much.

For Liliwin was _not_ doing well. In truth, he was not doing all that better, in spite of Cadfael’s efforts and the loving care of his little wife. He remained pale and week and slept almost all the time, his nights haunted by violent nightmares, causing him to throw himself this way and that in his sleep, making Rannilt scared that he might injure himself even worse in the process. Unfortunately, none of Cadfael’s draughts seemed to help him to get some peaceful sleep.

When he was awake, which only happened for short periods by now, he seemed strangely listless and not interested in his surroundings at all. The only times there was some recognition in those tired blue eyes, a hint of smile on that pale, hollow face of his, were when he caught look of Rannilt, sitting at his bedside. It seemed as if he would need to reassure himself again and again that she was still there… and unhurt.

“He’s half-gone already,” Mistress Boneth, visiting her son to bring them all a cooked meal, commented to Cadfael softly. “He’s given up on life; he’s only holding onto it ‘til the child is born. Mark my words, Brother; he won’t be with us much longer.”

Cadfael looked at the sallow face of his patient, sweaty and contorted into a mask of pain, and had to agree with her. Although he was fairly sure that none of the broken ribs had actually punctured Liliwin’s lungs, he could see that something was very wrong with the young man. Perhaps he was bleeding in the inside from some injury that could not be detected by touch. Or his kidneys had been damaged a lot worse than thought at first. But he was clearly getting weaker and more absent with each passing day.

“I pray to God that he may hold out ‘til the child is born,” murmured Cadfael. “The poor lad had very little joy in his young life, but his wife he loved more than anything. ‘Tis cruel enough that he’ll have to part form her so soon; at least he ought to have the chance to see his child.”

“Yet what is to become of the child – or of the mother indeed – without him to protect them?” asked Mistress Boneth doubtfully. “The girl said he’d give his life to keep her safe, and he most likely would; but once he’s gone, the girl will be all alone on God’s earth.”

“God, who keeps the smallest of sparrows in His hand, will find a way to protect them,” answered Cadfael sincerely. He still _did_ believe that, despite all contrary evidence that he’d seen in his life.

As if he’d heard their words, Liliwin woke up unexpectedly, seeking out the monk’s solid bulk with his eyes.

“Brother,” he whispered, “you’ve always been good to me… to us… always. I’d like to ask a last favour of you… if I may.”

“Ask,” said Cadfael simply. “If it is in my might, I shall give you what you seek.”

“When I die,” whispered the minstrel, “Rannilt will have no-one… no-one to care for her… to protect her… and the child. I beg you… look after them… as the godfather of... of our babe.”

Cadfael understood – in truth, admired – the hidden agenda behind that request. With a godfather in St. Benedict’s order, the child would be able to count on the abbey’s support, modest though _that_ might prove to be. At least the brigands who had waylain them, would not dare to lay hand on the babe… _or_ on Rannilt. This was the only way for the poor, dying wretch to protect his small family.

“With Father Abbot’s leave, I shall do as you ask me,” Cadfael promised solemnly.

He did not expect Abbot Radulfus to object; Radulfus had considered Liliwin part of his responsibility, whenever the minstrel would set foot in Shrewsbury. By extension, that would be true for the whole family.

“Good,” Liliwin’s sunken eyes closed tiredly. “That is good. I’ll go… with my heart… at ease, then…”

He seemed to fall into some kind of restless slumber again, fading away almost visibly. Rannilt, devastated, clutched his cool hand as if it were her sole anchor to life.

“How long yet?” asked John Boneth quietly.

Cadfael shrugged. “I honestly cannot tell. It all depends on the babe now.”

“I just hope it will come, soon,” John sighed. “For this one cannot hold on much longer, I fear.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rannilt’s babe wasn’t born on that day. It wasn’t born on the following day, either. However on that particular evening Will Warden had a most interesting conversation in _Wat’s Tavern._

_Wat’s Tavern_ was an ale-house at the far corner of the horse-fair – not on the London highroad, but on the quieter road that bore away north-eastward. It was generally liked by the country folk who brought goods to the market, as it lay right on their way, and on market days, it was usually full.

Not on this very evening, though. On this day, barely a handful people were sitting at the tables, all well cared for, and the two pot-boys were playing draughts in an unoccupied corner. Wat did not mind them taking a break as long as there was nothing to do – they more than earned their keeping on the busier days. This was _not_ one of the market days, after all.

Walter Renold, the owner of the ale-house, rose readily from behind the counter and brought Will’s usual pint of ale with his own hands, obviously glad to have something to do. He even sat down at the table opposite Will, leaning on his brawny arms comfortably. The two of them had known each other for a long time – since the years of their youth, when Wat, as the taverner was generally called, had been a rover; young, curious and restless… which was the reason why Will always came to _Wat’s Tavern_ , whenever he needed to learn things people would not tell a soldier (and the sheriff’s chief sergeant, at that).

Now in his mid-forties, Wat offered as respectable a sight as Will Warden himself. A bear of a man, he was; though half a head shorter than the Sergeant, but more than his match in breadth and the heaviness of shoulders, with a round, bearded face and sharp, observant dark eyes. Like many of these parts, he might even have some Welsh blood in him, but not enough to feature prominently.

No-one knew where he had come from to begin with, perchance not even himself. In any case, he and his ale-house had been a permanent feature in town for at least fourteen years. Married to the equally skilled daughter of a skilled ale-wife, he and the Missus brewed most of the drinks offered in the tavern themselves… with the exception of wine.

Now he fetched a tankard of ale for himself, ready and willing to have a drink with his old friend. That, too, was a sight customers had grown used to in all those years. No-one would know what else than just ale did they share in such occasions.

“I may have something for you,” said Wat, raising his tankard in greeting, and Will followed suit. “It might be just gossip, mind you, but…” he shrugged elaborately. “You told me that some kind of music instrument was taken off the victim?”

Will nodded. “’Twas a rebec, if memory serves me well. My Lord Beringar says it had been rebuilt by Brother Anselm of the Abbey, a year and a half ago, when the man nearly got lynched.”

“I remember,” said Wat with a grim smile. “’Twas at Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding feast, wasn’t it? Not the proudest day in this town’s history, I’d say. And the lord sheriff believes the same perpetrators may have been at work again?”

“That is what Brother Cadfael seems to believe,” answered the Sergeant. “And for a monk, he’s got a remarkably good nose for such matters.”

“You can take the crusader out of the fight, but you cannot take the fight out of the crusader,” commented Wat philosophically. “He wasn’t always a monk, you know.”

“Yes, I do… what about the rebec, though?” Will pressed the issue. It was getting dark, hand he wanted to go home before long.

“It, or another one like it, has been offered to young Sulien Blount, the younger son of the Lord of Longner, who’s said to show some modest skill in music,” Wat told him.

“Longner, eh?” said Will thoughtfully. “They are no fools, for sure, if they’d gone so far out of town to sell some of their booty.”

The Longner lands, held by Eudo Blount the elder, lay in the Wrockwardine Hundred, in an isolated position within a broad loop of the River Severn, jut over two miles south-east of Shrewsbury and some one and a half miles north-west of Atcham. But what was more, the Blounts had as good as no connection to Shrewsbury, either to town or to Abbey, which made it unlikely that word about any business made in their home would reach the town all too soon.

Unlikely… yet not impossible, as it seemed.

“How did you learn about it?” asked Will, respectful of Wat’s apparently limitless resources.

Wat gestured towards the younger pot-boy, a lad of barely thirteen, with an unruly mop of taw hair and a pock-marked face.

“Bran was visiting his elder half-brother who works for the Blounts and saw the man with the rebec enter the house. He became curious, as boys are, and did a bit of eavesdropping.”

“Did he recognise the man?” asked the Sergeant.

Wat shrugged. “He’s not sure. He says he may have seen him during St. Peter’s fair, accompanying Mistress Emma, young Philip Corviser’s wife, but…”

“Mistress Emma has come from Bristol but a mere two years ago, has she not?” Will was thinking furiously. “Your Bran likely knows most local men who visit the fair… What if the man was one of the servants of Mistress Emma’s uncle?”

“The rich merchant of Bristol, the one who’d been murdered here two summers past?” asked Wat with a frown. “But why would they wish the poor minstrel and his family any harm?”

“I cannot think of a reason,” Will admitted. “But perhaps my Lord Beringar will.”

“If not him, then the provost certainly,“ suggested Wat. “At the very least, he ought to know who from the late Master Thomas’ men is going in and out of his own house.”

“I’m not so sure about that; young Master Philip no longer lives in his house, after all,” the Sergeant reminded him. “Not since Mistress Emma has bought the Weaver burgage in the spring. They have lived in their own ever since, even though Philip still goes to his father’s shop to work, every day, as it would be foolish to make up another one. He will take over from his father one day.”

Wat nodded. “True enough. I forgot about that. I do marvel, though, how John Weaver is doing now that house and business have gone to Mistress Emma. I have not seen him here for quite some time; and he used to be a regular.”

“He still works for the Weaver business, only not as its owner but as the foreman,” explained Will. “Mistress Emma is now closely affiliated with Roger Clothier and has her weavers work for him alone. They are competing with the Vestiers in earnest, ‘tis said, hard as it is to believe.”

“Hard indeed,” Wat agreed. “The Vestiers have always had the biggest clothiers’ business in Shrewsbury.”

“And they are not quite beaten yet,” said the Sergeant. “But Mistress Emma has inherited a flourishing merchant business from his late uncle as well as the money of her father, a master stone-mason. She can afford to take moderate risks in order to make more profit.”

Wat shook his head in amazement. “That Philip Corviser was truly born under a lucky star. To find a wife who’s not only young and pretty but also wealthy, with a shrewd sense for business… few young men can be so fortunate.”

“Well, he had gone great lengths to save her life, after all,” Will pointed out. “And Philip is not half-bad himself. A bit on the wild side, but a good, deft workman when someone can stop him from flying off after some angry cause or another… and easy on the eyes, too. Or will be, once he’s finished growing.”

“I can imagine that Mistress Emma is more than fit to keep him on a tight leash,” commanded Wat, grinning. “The provost must be very pleased to have the concern for his wayward son taken out of his hand.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” Will mulled over the piece of news he had just got from the taverner. “So, one of Mistress Emma’s men is involved in our case. Interesting. More so as they are new in town and not even here, most of the year. I shall have to listen around a bit more, it seems.”

“Try the small tavern in the Three Tree Shot,” suggested Wat. “People who don’t want to be seen often meet there, as it is tucked away in a somewhat hidden place.”

Will Warden found that a sound idea. He said so. Then he thanked Wat for the suggestion, paid for his drink and left the tavern to report back to Sheriff Beringar ere going home.

As he walked along the back lane of the horse-fair, he was surprised to see the Widow Nest leave her hovel in a great hurry, in the company of John Boneth’s daft boy, Griffin. For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain whether he ought to follow them to see what had happened, but then he rejected the idea. If it was of any importance, Wat would know about it by tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rannilt had gone into labour without forewarning, just when John Boneth was about to close his workshop and leave for home. An only child of his mother’s, he was slightly panicked by the news, as he had no idea what was needful to do in such a case.

“Shall I send for Brother Cadfael?” he asked uncertainly.

Griffin, who’d had four younger siblings, only one of which survived beyond the first year, shook his head.

“Men are not allowed t-to attend t-to a woman who’s about t-to give birth,” he explained, suitably excited about the whole thing. “And R-rannilt shan’t have the coin t-to pay a midwife.”

“What are we supposed to do then?” John was more than a bit concerned. He could afford to pay the midwife, but that would lead to all sorts of malevolent gossip neither he nor Rannilt could use.

“T-the Widow Nest is said t-to help poor women at childbirth sometimes,” answered Griffin. “She’s just helped her own granddaughter t-to this world, t-they say.”

John nodded. Everyone in Shrewsbury knew Eluned Nest and her ways. _Wild as a hare_ , people said, but they did not judge her too harshly. She was a good girl – she just could not say _no_ to a man. ‘Twas whispered that Jordan Achard, the baker of the Foregate would be the father of her child, born just a few days previous, although no-one could have shown any proof of that. But if her mother had attended to a successful birth…

“You think Mistress Nest would come?” John asked doubtfully.

Griffin nodded. Several times. “She’s a good one. I can fetch her, if you want me t-to do so, Master John.”

“All right,” John gnawed his lower lip anxiously. “But give word to my mother on your way, too. It may be good to have another woman who knows what’s needful to do.”

Griffin promised to hurry up, and off he was within a moment. Shortly thereafter, Mistress Boneth arrived (‘twas a good thing they lived only two streets away), carrying a wicker basket with clean towels, fine linen wraps that were slightly yellowed from age (as they had been the ones John himself had been wrapped as a babe), a small jar of honey, a phial of rose oil and a small container made of a piece of antler that would alter turn out to contain salt.

She placed the basket on the small writing desk of the late Baldwin Peche – the one standing near the window to utilize sunlight as long as there was any, together with a comfortable wicker chair – and looked around with a frown. Rannilt, curled up in pain, was sitting in the wicker chair, her small face pale and sweaty.

“That won’t do,” decided Mistress Boneth. “She cannot have her babe in that chair. We’ll have to move Liliwin there from the bed.”

John did not like that idea at all.

“Brother Cadfael said we should not move him unnecessarily,” he protested.

His mother looked at him tartly.

“You do not deem necessary that this poor girl have her child in a proper bed, like every good Christian?” she asked. “Or do you think _he_ ,” she nodded in Liliwin’s direction, who was dozing again and hadn’t heard a word of their argument, "would not want her to be as comfortable as possible while giving birth?”

John had to admit that this was most likely true, and so he carefully scoped up the unresponsive Liliwin, who barely weighed a thing in his arms, sat him into the wicker chair, wrapping him in the late Master Peche’s brychain to keep him warm. Mistress Boneth looked at the bedlinens and pulled a face. They were sweaty and even bloodied in places.

“Did Master Peche have more of these?” she asked. “We can’t lay the girl in this bed; it reeks.”

“In the chest over there perchance?” John hurried over to the furthest corner, where his late master’s bedlinens were still kept… mostly untouched, as Griffin had no need for them. “They aren’t in a very good shape, though.”

“That shan’t matter, as long as they are clean,” his mother followed him and chose the right pieces for mattress and pillows. “You know your grandmother used to be an herb-wife; she always warned us to keep injured people _and_ women in labour as clean as possible. _Any infection can lead to womb fever, killing both mother and child_ , she was always saying. Now, go and see that fire of yours rekindled. We shall be needing boiling water in a short time.”

John scurried off dutifully to rekindle the fire and to set up the cauldron for the water to boil. To tell the truth, he was glad to leave the lying-in camber, as Rannilt’s pain-filled whimpers were too pitiful to bear. She was a brave one, dealing with the pain as well as she could, but childbirth was hazardous business, even for someone a lot stronger and better-fed than she was.

John prayed fervently that Griffin would return with the Widow Nest, soon. While it was true that he and Rannilt had no ties whatsoever, he’d known her for years and found it hard to see her in so much pain. For the first time in his life, he marvelled at the strength of women, the pains they would go to bring forth a new life. He just hoped Rannilt would not pay for it with her own.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
‘Twas already dark outside when Griffin came back, with a woman in her middle years, clad in the simplest, yet clean and orderly homespun, her greying auburn hair drawn back austerely from her worn and lined face and covered with a crisp white wimple. Looking somewhat older than her forty-some years, the widow of the forester of Eyton must have been comely in her youth before the harshness of life and disappointment would have marred her still fine features. She looked at the whimpering Rannilt with kind hazel eyes.

“Poor little thing; this wasn’t how you have imagined married life, was it?” she asked.

She was the first to show true compassion for the young mother-to-be, John found. Perchance the fate of her own daughter, safely delivered yet unmarried and now the mother of a bastard child, made her more understanding towards others. John, who found strangely drawn to the unfortunate young couple, was grateful that Griffin had suggested calling for her help.

Soon thereafter, though, both he and Griffin were sent out of the lying-in chamber. In truth, Liliwin shouldn’t have been allowed to stay, either, but the women did not dare to have him moved again; and besides, he was more or less unconscious anyway, only waking up for short moments to ask after Rannilt’s well-being.

The two older women had re-made the bed by then and helped Rannilt into it, stripping her down to her shift. She looked frighteningly thin without the protective layers of her oversized clothes, merely skin and bones, looking more like a child with a grotesquely swollen belly than like a woman about to give birth. The widow Nest shook her head in concern.

“This will be a difficult birthing,” she prophesized. “Her hips are dangerously narrow, and carrying her babe has already used up much of her strength.”

Mistress Boneth rummaged through the contents of he basked and came up with a phial of ointment.

“Rub her belly with this,” she said. “My mother used to concoct it whenever someone in the family was about to give birth. It will ease her travail and bring it to a quicker conclusion.”

Mistress Nest did as she had been instructed to do, while Mistress Boneth loosened Rannilt’s hair, removing all the pins and combing out the knots, for having those was believed to make labour more difficult. Then she opened all the doors and drawers in the chamber and untied any knots she could detect in cloth or strings or rope, which was said to help a woman giving birth, as it supposedly eased the inner cramps and smoothed the way for the babe about to be born.

She had even brought forth a gemstone given to her by her own mother as a wedding gift: a smooth, polished piece of jasper, credited with childbirth-assisting powers as well as other useful abilities. She knew Brother Cadfael would have focused upon such practices, but what did men know abut the mysteries of childbirth? Fortunately, they weren’t allowed in the birthing chamber to make things even more complicated for the woman.

Despite all these time-honoured tricks of sympathetic magic, Rannilt’s labour turned out to be long and arduous. It continued on during the entire night, and by dawn she was so exhausted that the two older women were seriously afraid she might die on them ere she would be able to bring her babe into this world. But her determination to gift a child upon her beloved husband – who was barely aware of the dramatic events taking place in the same chamber – proved even stronger. After nine hours of gargantuan efforts, the crown of the babe finally appeared... and now the older women became concerned that it might stick.

“She won’t have the strength to push strong enough for the babe to come through,” said Mistress Nest worriedly. “We must help her… but I cannot get a hold on the babe yet!”

“I remember when I was having my first babe, my mother all but lay over me to help me press,” replied Mistress Boneth. “It _did_ damage the child somewhat – she was born with a dislocated shoulder – but we both lived… even though she died a few years later in the pox. That was before John would be born.”

“You think we should risk it?” asked Mistress Nest doubtfully.

The other woman shrugged. “We have nothing to lose… and neither has she.”

But even with their help, it took another hour ‘til the babe was finally born… without any visible damage. ‘Twas a small, skinny child, even for a mother as slight as Rannilt, but it seemed healthy enough and barely needed a gentle pat on its back to start the breathing.

“A boy,” Mistress Boneth lifted the wrinkled little creature for the exhausted mother to see. “A healthy little boy. You did well, Rannilt. You did very well indeed.”

Rannilt could not answer, so weak had she become. She just lay there, unable to move or to speak, while Mistress Nest tied the birthing cord and cut it at four fingers’ length. Then she washed the babe, rubbed him all over with salt, and then gently cleansed his palate with honey to give him an appetite.

While Mistress Boneth washed Rannilt and helped her into a clean shift she had also brought from home – one she could not wear any longer but that was still way too wide for the young mother – Mistress Nest continued her ministrations with the babe. She dried him with fine linen and wrapped him so tightly in swaddling bands that he could barely move and looked alarmingly like a little corpse in a winding sheet.

“He must remain surely bundled until he is old enough to sit up,” she warned Rannilt, “lest his tender limbs be twisted out of shape. He also must be nursed, bathed and changed every three hours, and rubbed with rose oil.”

“But we… we have not… the means,” Rannilt whispered; and indeed, these were the customs for well-to-do women to follow, which she was most definitely _not_. Children of vagabonds, born on the roadside, did not have the same luxury when beginning their life.

“Yes, we have,” said Mistress Boneth imperiously. “I shall see to it. I’ll also have Griffin bring John’s old cradle over here. The babe must be placed in a dark corner, where the light cannot injure his eyes, He must also be rocked, so that the fumes from the warm, moist humours of his body can mount to his brain and make him sleep. Do you have a name for him?”

“Liliwin,” whispered Rannilt. “After his father.”

People usually named a boy-child after one of the grandfathers. But since neither Rannilt nor Liliwin knew their fathers, naming the babe after his own father was the most logical thing to do. Which reminded the older women that they ought to show the babe his father and the rest of the family.

Having brought Rannilt into a presentable state, Mistress Boneth called in John and Griffin, while Mistress Nest gently woke Liliwin from his semi-conscious dozing and laid the babe in his arms. With her help, Liliwin was able to hold his son for a moment, and she even lifted the child closer so that he could kiss the tiny face. The babe opened big, periwinkle-blue eyes, the exact same ones as his father’s and yawned toothlessly.

“She named him after you,” Mistress Nest told Liliwin, who was gazing down at his son in wonder.

The tired blue eyes of the minstrel sought out the face of his wife… and he smiled tremulously.

“She is… the best thing that… that ever… happened to me… in life…” he whispered. “Tell her… that I thank her… for everything… and that I… that I love her… always will…”

He trailed off, his eyes becoming strangely vacant. Then a thin trickle of blood appeared in one corner of his mouth, running down his chin. He took a last, shaky, shallow breath… and then stopped breathing entirely.

Liliwin the minstrel, the wandering jongleur boy, loving husband to Rannilt, was dead, leaving behind a penniless widow and a newborn child.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John sent Griffin to fetch Brother Cadfael, although they all could see that Liliwin was beyond every man’s help. The monk arrived a short time later and examined the body thoroughly, now that he no longer had to concern himself with the possibility of hurting his patient or causing him even more harm.

“Several of the ribs had been badly broken,” he concluded, “and it seems that as he was moved one of those broken ribs _did_ stab his lung, after all, leading to his demise.”

“You mean _we_ have caused his death, when we moved him out of the bed?” asked John anxiously.

Cadfael shook his head. “No; for I suppose he would have died anyway, in a short time. I have already suspected that he was slowly bleeding in the inside; his head was injured severely, too, and his kidneys were badly damaged. Even if he’d lived, he would have been crippled, unable to care for himself and his family. At best, he could have become a beggar… if the ones already owning the begging places would have borne his presence, which is doubtful. No, I would almost say ‘tis better for him this way.”

“But not for his family,” said John quietly.

Cadfael nodded. “True. Also, his death means that we are no longer dealing with a simply, though cowardly assault. From now on, we are dealing with murder.”

“But who would care for the death of a vagabond who used to live on the road in an honest town like this?” asked John bitterly.

Cadfael shot him a sharp glance.

“ _I would_ ,” he replied, “and so would Hugh Beringar, if I know him at least a little, which I do indeed. He is a decent man who does not like the people of his town murdering passing strangers. You can be certain that he shall look into this case and that justice will be had, by all parties involved.”

“Little of which would do Rannilt and her child any good,” commented John dryly.

Cadfael nodded again. “True enough. But that is another problem for another day. Right now, I shall see that Liliwin’s body will be moved to the church and laid out properly. After that I have to bring word about his demise to Father Abbot and to Hugh. Of everything else, we shall speak later.”


	4. Emma's Menfolk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER FOUR – EMMA'S MENFOLK**

Cadfael found Hugh Beringar in the Castle, where the sheriff was listening to the reports of his sergeants… and was not the least pleased to learn that they were dealing with a murder case now. As a rule, the people of Shrewsbury were of a good, decent sort. That some of them would be willing to kill a man and his entire family out of pure spite worried him greatly. It showed how much the current semi-lawless state of the greater part of England roughened the ways of the common folk towards each other. Should there ever be peace again, he and the other sheriffs would have their work cut out for them to reinforce laws and proper customs to full effect, he feared.

“Will Warden heard in _Wat’s Tavern_ that one of Mistress Emma Corviser’s man had tried to sell Liliwin’s rebec – or, at least one like his – to Sulien Blount,” he told Cadfael. “If the instrument is truly the one that had been taken from Liliwin after the attack, then I believe we ought to speak with Mistress Emma without much delay.”

“If the rebec indeed belonged to Liliwin, Brother Anselm should be able to confirm that,” said Cadfael. “He was the one who rebuilt it, after all; and he never forgets an instrument he’s worked with. He may forget faces but never instruments.”

“We may need his testimony yet,” answered Hugh thoughtfully. “Let us pay Mistress Emma a visit first, though. She lives in the neighbourhood of the Aurifaber burgage – will Rannilt still be safe in John Boneth’s shop if one of Emma’s men had part in the attack?”  
  
“I do believe that the culprits will hold back for a while, now that Liliwin is dead and your men have shown marked interest in the circumstances of the attack,” said Cadfael. “They had thought to have beaten him to death right during the attack; everyone would have suspected footpads on the road and not paid the case any attention. Things like that happen, unfortunately, and the victims weren’t people of any importance. But now that Rannilt has found a patron, and a man of some substance at that, they will be more careful. They will wait until Rannilt is churched again – once she won’t live under John Boneth’s roof and his protection any longer, though, I would not give a copper penny for her safety.”

Hugh nodded in grim understanding. “When can she get churched?” he asked.

Cadfael shrugged. “Not for another week, at the very least. ‘Twas a difficult birth; and she’d already been weakened.”

“Won’t the child be baptized today, then?” asked Hugh in surprise. “I thought it ought to be done as soon after birth as possible.”

“It is, and it will be,” answered Cadfael complacently. “Mistress Boneth has offered to take her to the Holy Cross later today.”

“And _you_ will be going with them, of course,” said Hugh shrewdly.

“Of course,” replied Cadfael. “I am one of the godfathers, after all.”

“You are?” Hugh was completely unsurprised. It was custom to select two godfathers and one godmother if the child was a boy and the other way round if it was a girl; he had expected the young parents to ask Cadfael, as they could hardly count on anyone else in town.

“With Father Abbot’s leave, I am,” said Cadfael. “That was Liliwin’s dying wish, and we must respect it.”

“Who’s the other godfather?” asked Hugh. “And who’s the godmother?”

“Rannilt asked John Boneth and his mother,” Cadfael told him. “Mistress Boneth is a bit old for the part, true, but Rannilt knows no-one else who’d do it, the poor child.”

“My lady would do it, were she her,” said Hugh with an indulgent smile.

He could still remember how eagerly had Aline taken in Rannilt, right before her wedding, to fatten her up a little and to teach her all the little things a bride ought to know. She had always been the one to take in any wounded bird.

“No doubt she would,” Cadfael agreed,” but she is not here, and the child cannot stay unbaptized ‘til she comes back. She still can – and will, I presume – act as an honorary aunt, though.”

“I’ll go to the church with you,” Hugh decided. “Perchance one of the murderers will be there… if the sheriff is present, he may not try anything foolish.”

“I do not believe we’d have to worry about _that_ , not yet,” said Cadfael. “But your presence will be welcome in any case.”

“Are you coming with me to Mistress Emma’s house?” asked Hugh.

“Would you try to keep me from coming with you?” asked Cadfael back confidently.

Hugh laughed. “I’d have been surprised, had your answer been different.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The burgage of the Weaver family, now belonging to Mistress Emma Corviser (née Vernold), occupied a prominent place on St. Mary’s Water-Lane, a steep passage between high stone walls, running from the junction of St. Mary’s Place and Castle Street, down to the River Severn. The Lane passed through one of the outer gates of the town wall, beside the river.

This particular area had earned sinister fame in the previous year, when Master William Rede, the chief of the Abbey’s lay stewards, had been attacked and robbed in the passage above the water-gate, right under Roger Clothier’s cart-yard, which opened directly onto the Lane. Some people still looked around nervously, whenever they had to use the passage, even though the attacker had been found and punished properly.

Emma Corviser, however, was not one of those people, and she had not hesitated to buy the Weaver burgage when it had been offered to her. A right-angled house it was, that of the Vestier family not unlike, albeit not quite _that_ large; with a wide shop-front on St. Mary’s Place, and the long stem of the hall and chambers running well behind to the Lane, with a spacious yard and stables. Those, though, had been owned by Roger Clothiers for many years by now… ever since the Weavers’ business had begun to decline.

There was room enough in that elongated building, aside from the living chambers of Emma and Philip, to house ample stores in a good, dry undercroft, and provide space for the girls who carded and combed the newly dyed wool, besides two horizontal looms set up in their own outbuilding, and plenty of room in the long hall for several spinsters at once.

Quite a few years ago, the Weaver business had been more than a match for the Vestiers; at least a dozen spinsters and four more weavers about the town had worked for them in their homes. But things had taken a turn to the worse in the life of John Weaver’s father already, who had cared more for wine and ale and pretty wenches than for his business; and John, after the death of his wife, had followed suit.

He had been forced to sell the stables and the yard first, to Roger Clothier, who had wanted to expand his own business; then the shop front, where the merchant now displayed his wares for potential customers. Then, less than four months past, John Weaver had seen no other way out of his debts than to sell the rest of the house _and_ the weaver business to Mistress Emma, keeping naught but a small niche at the end of the long hall as his own, separated by a curtain from the working area, with a bed in which he slept and a chest in which he kept his meagre belongings – those that he had not already sold to pay his debts.

Strictly seen, even that niche belonged to Mistress Emma now, of course. But, as Hugh had learned from Will Warden, she left him sleep here, out of the goodness of her heart… and as she spared herself a watchman that way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Hugh and Cadfael entered the house through the door of the shop front and were somewhat surprised to see that the bales of fabric – the finest wool, linen and even silk, as Roger Clothier had excellent contacts to Flanders and France and even Venice, 'twas said – usually displayed here had been carried over to one side of the shop. On the other side, casks of the finest French wine had been arranged invitingly, and, on a low counter, fancy wares from the East: sweetmeats, spices and candy, as brought to Europe by Venetian merchants for their local fellow tradesmen to re-sell.

Roger Clothier, the master of the business, was looking over the shoulder of his clerk doing the books when they entered. He was a big man in his mid-thirties, or perchance a year or two beyond, but so neatly and squarely built that his size was not wholly apparent. He stood with his thumbs in the belt of his ample gown; a plain one, yet cut and fashioned to show him the solid, respectable, comfortably provided personage that he was. Not quite a nobleman, yet not a mere commoner, either – rather a man of substance of the middle kind; one of those who carried the well-being of the people on their shoulders amongst the ongoing insanity of civil war.

He had a tanned face, like those who spent a great deal of their time outdoors, with wide cheekbones, clean-shaven jowls, crowned with a cap of smooth, dark hair. A face dominated by almost shockingly blue, shrewd and observant eyes. Hearing the door open, he glanced up from the books and, recognizing the visitors, smiled jovially at them.

“My Lord Sheriff,” he said heartily. “And Brother Cadfael, is it? We’ve met a few years ago, if memory serves me well. How can I be of service?”

“In truth, we have come to see Mistress Emma,” replied Hugh, looking around with great interest. “You seem to have expanded your business into very different directions, though, it seems.”

“Oh it only looks like that,” explained Roger Clothier with a content smile. “Half of it – and not quite the smaller half, I must admit – belongs to Mistress Emma. As you know, she was the only heiress of the late Master Thomas of Bristol, as the good merchant had no other living kin; a substantial inheritance, but not easily dealt with by a woman.”

“And so she has made a deal with you,” Hugh realised. “You act in her stead when dealing with the late Master Thomas’ business partners… and get your cut in exchange.”

“And a rather handsome cut it is,” the merchant admitted readily. “ _And_ I get to use the best river barge that’s ever sailed the Severn for my own business. ‘Tis a very profitable deal for both of us, if I may say so myself.”

“More so if you have also become a silent partner in the Weaver business,” added Cadfael shrewdly.

The merchant nodded, clearly not seeing anything wrong with that.

“Why, certainly! Mistress Emma is a skilled embroideress, but she is still learning how a clothier business is run. I, on the other hand, have grown up doing this; she need me to show her the ropes… although she is a quick learner, I have to give her that. Used to do her uncle’s books, too, so no-one can pull a veil over her eyes.

Cadfael briefly wondered whether the merchant had ever made the effort to pull the veil over Emma’s eyes but found it wiser not to ask. They might need the help of Roger Clothier yet, and he was a man of easy manners, unless insulted in some way.

“She is in the spinning room at the moment,” added the merchant helpfully. “As I said, she is new to the clothier’s business, and thus she needs to make herself familiar with all the skills involved, from teasing and carding to the loom and the final cutting of garments.”

Hugh shook his head in tolerant amusement. “Somehow I have a hard time to imagine her at the distaff.”

“She keeps an eye on the spinsters and weavers more than she spends time at the distaff or the loom herself,” the merchant agreed. “But then, ‘tis not her task to do the rough work. Embroidery is in what she excels, and she works diligently enough in her own trade. Just go through that door over there; it will lead you straight to the spinning room.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Following the instructions, Hugh and Cadfael came into the long hall where half a dozen spinstresses were sitting at their distaffs, working tirelessly. The mistress of the house sat a little apart, embroidering a pair of fine leather gloves, meant for the hands of a noble lady.

Upon their entrance, she looked up, smiled in welcome, and bit off her thread to give them her undivided attention. Hugh, who had not seen her for quite a while was now eyeing her with interest.

The girl, first seen in a distraught state on her recently-murdered uncle’s boat, had grown into blooming womanhood in the two years in-between… and she was a wealthy woman now, which showed. Her dark blue gown, albeit plain, was elegantly cut, and made of the finest wool someone owning a weaver’s business could acquire. She wore a fine bliaut of bleached linen over it, embroidered in many colours, presumably by her own hand. The great, thick coils of her blue-black hair were held by a gilded net on her neck. Her rounded face, as rosy as it had ever been, was lit by two long-lashed, dark blue eyes that seemed wide and innocent, and yet held a great deal of calculating shrewdness that belied her apparent youth.

‘Twas hard to believe that this fine young woman would be married to the provost’s son, who still appeared too young and way too guileless for marriage. ‘Twould have been easier to understand, had she been drawn to a mature and experienced and well-travelled man from her late uncle’s trade… someone like Roger Clothier, who seemed to appreciate her sense for business a great deal more than Philip Corviser would ever be able to do.

What was going on between her and the merchant might be strictly business now, but Cadfael had the uncomfortable feeling that it might change in time… and in not too much time, at that. Cadfael wondered why she had married Philip in the first time; Roger Clothier would have been a much better match for her.

Suddenly, he felt very sorry for Philip Corviser, so generally envied for her pretty, wealthy and business-like little wife.

Emma laid her work aside and rose from her seat, greeting them with obvious joy. Despite the profound social differences between her, the heiress of a rich merchant and the wife of a craftsman, and a landed lord like the sheriff, she still remembered fondly the kindness shown her by Lady Beringar, and clearly knew that she owed both her and her husband gratitude.

“My Lord Beringar!” she exclaimed, giving him a radiant smile. “How good to see you again! How is the Lady Aline faring?”

“Fine enough, I assume,” replied Hugh. “She is still in Maesbury, though. You do remember Brother Cadfael, don’t you?”

“How could I ever forget him?” Emma’s smile became somewhat demure, as she turned to the elderly monk. “Welcome, Brother! What can I do for you? If you have come to collect alms for the poor, I’m sure something can be found for such a good purpose.”

“Charity is approved of in heaven,” quoted Cadfael the usual commonplace, “yet the lord sheriff and I are on a different errand today, and we hoped that you can be of valuable help with that.”

“Me?” she said in surprise. “Why, certainly, although I am at a loss how I could be of any use for your errand.”

“Is there a place where we could talk in private?” asked Hugh. “The matter is somewhat… sensitive.”

Emma thought for a moment; then she nodded.

“We can use the parlour,” she said. “If we leave the door open, I can keep an eye on the weavers; yet it is at enough distance from the weaving room so that we cannot be overheard.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Do your weavers give you any pain?” asked Cadfael, after they’d relocated to said parlour.

A pleasant, wood-panelled little room it was, with cushioned chairs and a small, carved table in the middle, and a fireplace in the back. It also served as Emma’s private working room, if the embroidered garments on the hangers were of any indication.

“Or only one of them?” added Hugh shrewdly. Emma gave him a look of understanding.

“I believe ‘tis not easy for him,” she said, “becoming a mere worker in that which used to be his. But it is no fault of mine that he’d got himself in such debts through drinking and gambling. At least I offer him the chance to remain under the roof that was once his home and to work off his debts. We see that part of his payment goes directly to his debtors; that way, he won’t get any deeper, at least.”

“You take good care of your workers,” said Cadfael, eyeing John Weaver, who was working dully at his loom, with wary interest.

The former owner of the Weaver business was a thin, morose and taciturn man, lean-jowled and sedate, with lank hair curtaining a lugubrious face. ‘Twas whispered in town that he kept himself apart from the other workers, who had once worked _for_ him, not _with_ him. His clothes, although made of the good cloth of his own handiwork, showed advanced signs of wear and tear; flecked in some places and threadbare in other ones. His small, pale eyes were deep in their dark sockets and seemed bloodshot. But his hands still worked steadily and with great skill, throwing the shuttle with amazing speed and accuracy, as if he could have done this in his sleep.

Emma followed Cadfael’s glance, watched her foreman for a moment, and then shrugged.

“He is a good worksman, if only he can keep of the wine long enough. ‘Twould have been a shame to lose him to the Vestiers, who, no doubt, would take him in a moment. ‘Tis bad enough that he keeps company with Eddi Rede; they get each other in trouble all the time. But you have not come all this way to talk to me about my foreman, have you?”

“No,” Hugh admitted. “We have come to talk to you about the men who used to work for your late uncle. I assume they remained in the service and work for you now?”

“Indeed, they do,” answered Emma readily enough. “But there are not in town right now; well, save Warin. The others have set off for Bristol but two days ago and shan't be back for several weeks. They have taken a shipment of cloth and fleeces for the Flemish cloth merchants to sell.”

“Oh,” said Cadfael, with a meaningful look at Hugh. “That is… unfortunate, I would say.”

Emma, shrewd little creature that she was, caught on quickly enough.

“Why?” she asked. “Have they done something wrong?”

“That we cannot ascern for certain, not yet,” said Hugh. “That is why I wanted to speak with them.”

“But you do have a hunch,” said Emma. “You _believe_ they have, or you weren’t here, asking for them. What is it?”

“As I said: we are not certain,” replied Hugh. “You have surely heard what happened to the minstrel Liliwin and his wife right before the town gates, though?”

Emma nodded. “It has been all over the town for days; a most awful thing! And you believe one of my men could be part of it? 'Tis hard to imagine. They are good, hard-working people who wouldn’t swat a fly!”

“Perchance they would not,” said Hugh slowly. “And yet one of them was seen as he tried to sell a rebec, like the one that has been taken from Liliwin, in Langnor.”

Emma’s rosy countenance became deathly pale. The thought that one of the men that had worked for her uncle, and then for herself for many years, could have taken part of such an evil deed clearly frightened her.

“Which one?” she asked with a trembling voice.

“We do not know,” Hugh admitted. “The boy who saw him did not know him by name. He could only tell that the man had attended to you during the fair. It could have been any of them.”

“Which one would be _your_ choice?” asked Cadfael gently.

Emma gave the question some serious thought. The two men let her take her time to think, knowing it must have been hard for her to learn that one of the men she’d known and trusted for years might have been a murderer.

“I cannot imagine Warin having anything to do with such an ill deed,” she finally said. He’d been in my uncle’s service for many years; longer than I have been alive. When I was a little girl, he used to make toys and willow-whistles for me. He was always content with his place, never had any great ambitions.”

“Less so now that you have kept her in such a cosy place as Master Clothier’s house clerk,” added Cadfael shrewdly.

He _had_ recognised the leathery, middle-aged man in the front shop from that wild thatch of grey hair that stood out of the refined surroundings like a sore thumb. Even if Hugh had not, which he doubted. Hugh rarely forgot a face, and he’d had repeated dealings with the late Master Thomas of Bristol’s men while investigating their master’s murder case.

“He has his limits,” Emma allowed, “but within those limits, he can be trusted completely. He is lettered and numbered, and good enough with his letters and numbers to do the books… as long as one of us looks over his shoulder frequently. No, I cannot believe that he’d have any part in that attack. He values his own comfort and safety too much for that.”

“But he may know something about it,” Hugh pointed out.

Emma shook her head. “I very much doubt it. Warin has always taken great care _not_ to notice anything that might cause him trouble.”

Her argument was so convincing that Hugh gave in. She knew these men best, after all.

“One of the others, then, perchance?” he asked. “What about the journeyman of the late Master Thomas, what’s his name again?”

“Roger Dodd,” answered Cadfael in Emma’s stead.

Oh, he remembered the man all too well. A sturdy, stiff and aware fellow, with an intense, dark face and burning, embittered eyes. A skilled journeyman in a trusted position, fiercely loyal to his master… and deeply, hopelessly in love with his master’s young niece.

Cadfael wondered how he might have come to terms with his mistress marrying the young, hot-headed Philip Corviser, half a child still, and without any true substance yet, when – should Emma have chosen _him_ – he might have gotten both the girl _and_ Master Thomas’s business, as a husband of the heiress. And, in a few more years, perchance a respected merchant of his own. Emma’s dowry alone would have been enough for him to start a new business, not to mention her inheritance.

Would a man be angry enough over such a loss to attack the first victim coming his way, just to free himself from some of that anger?

As if having heard his thoughts, Emma shook her head decisively.

“Not Roger, no,” she said. “He has more important issues to deal with than beating some poor, helpless wretch to death. His ten years in my uncle’s service – well, in mine now, I assume – will be over come next Spring, and he’ll be his own man from that day on. I have offered him to become the figurehead of the business, as Master Clothier’s partner, with a handsome cut depending on his success – and he accepted. It may not be as independent as building up his own business from the scratch… but certainly more profitable. Uncle Thomas left a strong, blossoming enterprise to me.”

“Not as profitable as marrying the heiress would have been,” commented Hugh.

Emma’s smile at that was somewhat strained.

“Oh, he tried. He asked me, right after my uncle’s death, and then after I was saved by Philip from Messire Corbiere; and a third time, in Bristol, after the burial. It became truly burdensome to reject him so many times, again and again. And so…”

“… and so you married Philip Corviser, just to be safe of him,” Cadfael finished for her, several details sliding into place all of a sudden. “But why? He did not simply want the business, as I am sure you know. He liked you for yourself. Very much so.”

“Too much so,” said Emma, clearly uncomfortable with the memory of it. “So much so that it frightened me.”

Remembering the mute but watchful and jealous devotion of the late Master Thomas’ journeyman and how he had hovered upon Emma with hungry eyes, Cadfael nodded in understanding. All that, coming from a man ten or more years his senior, _would_ have been frightening for a young and previously well-guarded girl.

“What about the third one, though?” he asked. “He seemed the youngest of the three, if memory serves me correctly; a gawky, lean but powerful fellow of about twenty.”

“Oh, Gregory,” Emma was smiling in genuine fondness now. “He’s such a dear one; strong and able of body and thus of great use on the ship or on any fair, yet very dull of wit, that poor lad. Always believes just about everything people tell him… but he would never beat up a hopeless man _and_ his breeding wife, ganging up with three other men.”

“Perhaps not,” Hugh agreed. “But since he does have the mind of a child, perhaps he was used. Perhaps whoever had a hand in Liliwin’s death used _him_ to get rid of the spoils… such as there would be. Perhaps someone told him a sad story about why that rebec needed to be sold in a great hurry, and he went out to do it, in blessed ignorance, only wanting to help.”

Emma pondered over that for a while.

“I assume that _is_ possible,” she finally said. “Gregory has a heart of pure gold and would do anything for people who are kind to him, as most people are _not_. More so if he did not know something was afoul with the rebec. He would have been happy to help.”

“We need to know whom he keeps company with when he is in town,” said Hugh.

Emma spread her hands in a helpless gesture.

“Well, he shan’t be back before Christmas, I fear; and I do not spy on my men, as long as they do their chores diligently. I remember to have heard on occasion, though, that he would go to the small inn in the Three Tree Shut for an ale with some other young men from the town. With Bertred, the Vestiers’ foreman, or that Gunnar fellow who works for William Hynde… _and_ with John here,” she glanced shortly at the former owner of her business. “And where _those_ are, Eddi Rede is never far from.”

Cadfael and Hugh exchanged surprised looks. Those were names the would never had connected, considering that Bertred was the best weaver of the competing Vestier business, Gunnar the serving-man for the rougher cases of a rich wool-merchant, and Eddi Rede, the only son of Master William Rede, generally just a brawler and a gambler who rarely did anything useful with his young life, constantly driving his long-suffering parents to distraction.

“That is certainly interesting,” Hugh commented. “I shall send Will Warden to that inn to keep his ears and eyes open. Perchance he can find out more about them. Thank you for your time, Mistress Emma. You have been an enormous help with this sorry case. At least now we have a track to follow.”

“Should that prove so, I would be pleased,” she sighed, her eyes darkening with sorrow. “I only hope that Gregory will turn out blameless in this terrible business. I would hate to lose him. He is as close to me as family… they all are.”

“Let’s hope that it will not come to that,” said Hugh placatingly. “Well, we must go now. ‘Tis getting late, and we have a baptism to attend to after _None_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The newborn son of Rannilt and Liliwin was baptized in the Holy Cross: the parish church of the Foregate, which was also the abbey church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul’s. The very same church in which Rannilt and Liliwin had been married a year and a half ago. The monks of the Abbey worshipped at the eastern end of the church, while the parishioners at the western end, each having their own separate altar.

The parish of the Holy Cross also had its own priest: the same one who had married the child’s parents. Father Adam, whose ailing health had been the source of concern for both the abbey and the parish, was a sad, kind man of about sixty. A, man of humble origins, barely lettered and with no pretensions, he had served his flock for seventeen years already. That long had he been listening to and bearing with the perpetual failures of fallible men and women, endlessly consoling and chiding and forgiving. No wonder that after all those years he had become sad and even a little tired, more so as neither malice nor anger dwelt in his own heart. Yet he had somehow managed to preserve compassion and hope, despite everything, and he was nothing but kind to any rueful soul, even to the repeat sinners.

This kind and gentle old man was now waiting for the babe, who was borne to the church by Mistress Boneth, covered with a robe of finely embroidered linen that had become a little yellow-ish during the years gone by since the birth of her own children. The Widow Nest was carrying the christening bonet, while her daughter Eluned, only recently churched herself, held the train of the babe’s mantle, while holding her own newborn daughter on the other arm.

Few other priests would have allowed her to have part in a service patronized by a respectable burgess like Mistress Boneth, knowing the life that she usually led. But Father Adam had known her since she had been but a little girl, and he knew that she was a good person at heart. The only one she had ever harmed was herself.

Besides, Rannilt had no female relatives whatsoever who could have taken over that part.

The congregation witnessing the service was a small one, consisting only of John Boneth and Brother Cadfael as godfathers, Hugh Beringar, and Brother Anselm, who considered himself a voluntary patron of the child, just as he had taken the father under his wings. Griffin would have come, too, but John had not dared to leave Rannilt alone and unprotected in the house. Not as long as her husband’s murderers were still unknown and running free.

Cynric, the verger of Holy Cross, who had been with Father Adam through most of his years of office and lived in the tiny upper room over the north porch, where the old priest robed and kept his church furnishings, had outdone himself to decorate the great church door for the occasion – perhaps in an act of partisan defiance against those who had wronged the babe’s father so cruelly. The heavy wings of the west door stood ajar, fresh straw was spread on the floor, and the baptismal font was covered with velvet and linen, as if the child of a nobleman would have been brought. Or, at least, that of a rich merchant or a well-to-do craftsman.

Mistress Boneth undressed the baby on a silk-cushioned table; the little one squirmed and whimpered a bit, but not too much. Fortunately, it was not very cold, despite the time of the year. Father Adam traced the sign of the cross on his tiny forehead with holy oil, reciting the baptismal service. When he faltered here and there, due to age and poor health, Cynric helped him out in his grainy and grudging voice. During his long years of service, the verger had learned all the needed words for every ritual, even though, individually, he did not understand them, having even less Latin than the priest himself.

John Boneth then lifted the babe to the basin, and Father Adam plunged him into the water. It was, understandably, quite cold, so the babe wailed loudly in protest. The Widow Nest dried and swaddled him hurriedly. Then she tied on the christening cap to protect the holy oil on his forehead.

“And so it all comes to full circle,” murmured Cadfael to Brother Anselm, after the service had been finished, the small congregation left to have a modest meal in Mistress Boneth’s house, and Cynric had begun to blow out the candles on the parish altar. “Liliwin, the father, lies bared up in a side chapel, while Liliwin, the son, is getting tied in to the great community of the church. A community that will bind them together for eternity. Life and death embrace each other at the same time, in the same place.”

“I marvel, though,” answered Brother Anselm slowly, “what will become of the child, once the father is buried and forgotten?”

“The ways of Our Lord are wondrous and often beyond our comprehension,” said Cadfael in unshakable faith. “He who can write straight on crooked lines will right the fate of Rannilt and her child.”

Anselm, a vague, slender, short-sighted person some ten years his junior, who, as a rule, took very little interest in anything beyond his personal enthusiasms (namely music and books), peered out from beneath bristling eyebrows at him with a twinkle in his blue eyes. A twinkle that revealed tolerant amusement for fallible human creatures and their failings, young and old alike.

“Oh, of _that_ I am fairly certain,” he said. “Yet sometimes it seems to me as if He would require _our_ hands for the needful thing to be done.”

“That,” declared Cadfael thoughtfully, “will be decided by men of considerable more substance than you or I, Brother.”

“Mayhap so; at least where the decision itself is concerned,” replied Anselm, his eyes still twinkling. “Still, it would surprise me greatly, if you would have no part in it all, as soon as that decision needs to be turned into deeds.”

“I am always willing and glad to help bringing lost little lambs back to the flock,” said Cadfael with dignity. “And Father Abbot knows that well enough and takes advantage of my willingness whenever there is a need.”


	5. Sparrow Nestled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER FIVE – SPARROW NESTLED**

And thus the next day found Cadfael, Hugh Beringar and Master Corviser, the provost of the town, in the abbot’s private parlour. The small gathering had been summoned by Abbot Radulfus himself, who still felt some responsibility for the abbey’s former charge, to discuss Liliwin’s burial and the future of Rannilt and her child.

John Boneth had also been called in, and was now sitting on the edge of his stool, clearly uncomfortable in such exalted company and desirous to return to his work – something solid, something that he knew well and was secure in it.

“Before everything else, I believe we should commend Master Boneth here; him and his mother, both,” said Abbot Radulfus when all were comfortably seated. “’Twas the deed of a true Christian, taking in the poor homeless and taking such excellent care of them. For as much as our brethren do in Saint Giles to ease the needs of such people, there can be no doubt that they had it much better under your protection.”  
  
John shrugged, almost a little ashamed of so much praise.

“I have known Rannilt since she was but a child,” he said. “In truth, she is still barely more than that, a widow and a mother though she may be. I did not have the heart to let her die on the roadside; and it was apparent that Mistress Aurifaber would not move a finger to help her.”

“Unhappiness is often an enemy of true charity,” said the provost in agreement. “And with a husband like Daniel Aurifaber, any wife would be predestined to unhappiness. He married her for her wealth alone, and he has shunned her ever since, not only for the sake of other women but also for his gambling and drinking. Small wonder she has grown bitter in the years of such a joyless – and childless! – marriage.”

“Not that she would have been better off with Vyvian Hynde,” replied John with a wry smile, “eager though he was to compete with Daniel Aurifaber for her hand.”

That was new even for Hugh Beringar, who turned to the locksmith with interest.

“What do you say? The Hynde lad courted her, too?”

“Courted her father’s purse, you mean?” asked John with an amused snort. “Yes, he did that, and fervently so. But Edred Bele, who has done business with old William Hynde longer than Vyvian has been alive, knew the lad and his… costly way of life all too well. And thus he chose Daniel Aurifaber, who is at least a good workman when kept on a short enough leash.”

“I imagine that young Master Hynde was _not_ happy about losing such a golden goose as Margery Bele,” commented Hugh with a grin.

John laughed. “Oh, he was most aggrieved for at least half a year. He didn’t even speak to Daniel Aurifaber for a month. But other wealthy fathers have pretty daughters, too, as they say, so he’s set his eyes on Margery Draper now, the bailiff’s daughter, or so my mother has heard on the market, and the two are back in old friendship again. Them, and Eddi Rhede – the three most misbegotten sons of respectable fathers in town.”

Hugh nodded in agreement, knowing the young men in question all too well. Cadfael, however, was pondering over another name. Margery Draper – had she not been the girl betrothed to Brother John, four or more years ago? The one who had thrown him over, as soon as her father had become bailiff of Shrewsbury, no longer finding a mere craftsman good enough, although barely sixteen or seventeen back then? The one for whom Brother John had taken the cowl… as long as _that_ lasted, in any case?

Yes, it had to be so. But if she _was_ the same girl indeed, then young Master Hynde would be hard-pressed to win her favour – or that of her father. As the head of the powerful _Drapers’ Guild_ , Uther Draper could choose from the wealthiest, most respected merchants and master craftsmen of the town to marry his daughter to, and Cadfael very much doubted that he would choose someone whose only talents were to look good in his finery and spend money on more finery.

“However,” said Abbot Radulfus, waking Cadfael from his private musings and steering him back to the main issue being discussed at the moment, “once the young mother has been churched, she cannot remain under Master Boneth’s roof any longer. Not now that her own husband is dead. We need to find a solution that could serve both her needs and the requirements of decency.”

“I assume you cannot find a place for her within the abbey grounds?” asked Hugh.

Radulfus shook his head determinedly.

“Not even lay servants do live within these walls, and ‘tis good so. No need to tempt our brethren with the pleasures of a life outside the cloister; particularly the young ones who began monastic life as child oblates, at a very tender age. Perchance we could find her a place to stay in the Foregate, though. That way, we may be able to keep an eye on her and intervene, should she be in any danger. We once have accepted responsibility for her late husband; we have an obligation towards her and her child.”

Cadfael shrugged. “We could ask the widow Nest if she would take her in, although Cynric says that her hut is barely enough for her and Eluned. And they have a babe of their own to care for. Still, she is the only one who may be willing to do it. Other than that, I can only suggest Saint Giles. Not the right place to raise a child, I admit it, but still better than the roadside.”

“No,” John interrupted, his discomfort about dealing with people way above his rank forgotten by now. “No, that won’t do. I have spoken with my mother about this, and we agree that Saint Giles is out of the question. No, we shall take Rannilt and her child into my mother’s house… if she is willing, that is. We have the space – more than enough of it – and my mother would welcome the help. She is not getting any younger; and we can afford to keep a maidservant for food and lodging.”

“That is very generous of you,” said Abbot Radulfus, after a moment of stunned silence. John shrugged.

“If you say so, Father; although I find that we get a good bargain out of it. I often work late, and my mother is alone most of the day. She would welcome the female company; she always wanted a daughter, but my sister died in childhood. Now she can have one. Besides, we are godfather and godmother to Rannilt’s child; that means that we, too, have a responsibility for the welfare of the babe. We are willing to act on that.”

“Besides, while she is busy with her godson, your mother cannot nag you to go and find yourself a bride,” added Master Corviser shrewdly.

John laughed. “That, too. But that is not the true reason, I swear.”

“We know that,” said the provost, turning serious again. “That girl can count herself blessed to have a patron like you. Did she say anything about the funeral?”

John shook his head. “I am not sure she’s realised yet that her husband is truly dead. But even if she has, she may not know what needs to be done. I have taken upon myself to discuss the issue with you in her stead.”

“She won’t have the money for a proper coffin,” said Abbot Radulfus thoughtfully, “so a shrouded burial will have to do.”

“It would suit Liliwin, I think,” said Cadfael. “He’d say that a coffin would be way too fancy for him. He would prefer a shroud; Anselm and I will see that the body is properly washed and shrouded in time. We were the ones closest to him.”

“So be it,” the abbot nodded. “Has Anselm also offered to celebrate the burial rites and sang Mass for him?”

“He would, unless Father Adam wished to do it himself,” replied Cadfael. “’Tis doubtful that the old priest would have the strength to do it; still, ‘tis his choice, as he married him and baptized his child. I shall ask Cynric in the evening.”

“Do it,” said Radulfus. “And now that everything is settled, tell me how the investigation is going.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John Boneth felt greatly relived when he returned to his mother’s house. Now that he had the approval of both the lord abbot and the lord sheriff, both of whom showed surprising interest for Rannilt’s fate, he could finally move her and the babe from the shop under his mother’s care.

Fortunately, he had made good progress with his work on the previous day, despite the dramatic occurrences of childbirth and death, so he could leave the rest to Griffin, as it required but skill, no more careful planning. And skill the dim-witted boy had enough for two. John considered himself lucky to have inherited Griffin from his late master.

His good mood evaporated in a moment, though, when he saw his mother coming to greet him with a clouded face.

“Has something happened to the babe?” he asked. “Or to Rannilt?”

Mistress Boneth shook her head. “No… but I fear Rannilt shan’t be able to feed the babe properly. She does not have enough milk, for she is in a weakened state. We shall have to hire a wet nurse.”

“But Mother, who’d come and nurse the babe of a homeless woman?” John frowned. “We may _give_ her a home, but the entire town knows who she is – and the women with babes of their own won’t do that.”

“There’s one who will,” replied his mother, “Nest’s daughter, Eluned,” she sighed. “I know, I know. As a rule, a wet nurse must be chosen with great care, for all manner of qualities may be imbibed with her milk, and Eluned isn’t of a character whose influence one would wish upon a child. But do we truly have a choice? Besides, she is healthy and has no physical defects, which is the most important thing; and she has enough milk to feed another babe than just her own.”

“Perhaps,” allowed John, “but would she do it?”

His mother nodded. “She would, for her own child, as we can provide her with food that would be good for the babe and that she could not afford otherwise. I have already spoken to the Widow Nest, and she was all too glad to consent. She’ll send Eluned over twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, to nurse the babe and to eat with us at our table. Te other feedings Rannilt can hopefully do herself; or, if she cannot, we shall give the babe cow milk and herbal drinks.”

“You have thought of everything, it seems,” said John, “save one thing. If Eluned starts going in and out your house, people will talk.”

“Let them talk!” his mother answered, with a steely glint in her gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes. “I shan’t let Rannilt’s babe starve, just because their tongues are waggling.”

John Boneth had never been prouder of his mother than at this very moment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Brothers Anselm and Cadfael, in the meantime, were busying themselves with the sombre duty of preparing Liliwin for his last journey. As the funeral was not to take place until Rannilt had been churched, so that she could speak her final farewells to her husband, they had to do something to keep the body in a respectable shape for the next few days. Fortunately, they had great practice in such matters.

They washed the body with scented water and anointed it with balsam and a special ointment, the secret of which Cadfael had brought with him from the East, and encased it in a linen shroud. Then they sew it in a deerskin, leaving only his face uncovered, and deposited it in the wooden coffin that had been sent over from Martin Bellecote’s shop.

“I thought the widow did not have the means to afford a coffined burial,” commented Brother Benedict, the sacristan, who had come to see the progress they were making.

“She doesn’t,” replied Cadfael. “’Tis but a loan, so that the poor wretch can at least bared up properly.’

“Where shall we lay him anyway?” asked Brother Benedict. “We cannot lay him out before the parish altar – he wasn’t a cleric, after all – or within the chancel.”

“Father Abbot has sanctioned the use of the abbey chapel,” replied Cadfael. “We shall bring the body over shortly. He can lie there until Rannilt has been churched. He used to be under our protection, for whatever short a time; Father Abbot feels that we still have an obligation.”

“Not by the letter of the law, perchance, but surely according to its spirit,” said Brother Benedict in agreement. “So, how long would it take, in your estimate, until the little wife could be churched and the poor soul laid to rest?”

“I would guess a week, at the very least,” answered Cadfael thoughtfully. “It won’t be an easy week for anyone involved.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rannilt, hoverer, surprised everyone by recovering from her confinement in a mere four days. That led to general relief, as before the churching ceremony would take place, a new mother was considered impure and not allowed to make bread, serve food or have contact with holy water, among other restrictions.

“’Tis a good thing that you’re so strong already,” said Mistress Boneth approvingly. “This way we can have the ceremony right tomorrow. The day after would be a Friday, and if a mother is churched on Friday, she’ll become barren, ‘tis said. We cannot have _that_ , now can we? You’re still so very young, you may find a new husband yet.”

“I have no wish to do so,” whispered Rannilt. “I do wish to earn my keeping, though. You will see, Mistress: I am a hard worker. I shall do my best to prove useful for your household.”

“I know you will,” replied Mistress Boneth. “Only a hard worker would have survived under the heavy hand of Dame Juliana. Worry not about that just yet, though. First we need to prepare you for the churching. I wish you had something better to wear for a ceremony like this, but as you don’t, this will have to do.”

_This_ was the better set of Rannilt’s two sets of clothing; a modest, homespun gown that the widow had carefully cleaned and repaired for the event. Rannilt put it on, braided her hair in the manner of married women and covered it with a crisp white wimple, also borrowed from her benefactor. In that severe white frame her thin, almost child-like face gained a single-minded gravity that made her look a mature woman for the first time.

Mistress Boneth turned her around, examined her from every side and finally declared her suitably respectable to go to the church.

“Remember to keep your eyes straight in front of you when you have left the church again, after the ceremony,” she warned. “For if you see someone known for his evil character, or with a defect of any kind, the babe will be similarly afflicted. However, if your glance lights on a little boy, that would be a happy omen – it would mean that your next child would be a boy again.”

Rannilt nodded obediently; then it was time for them to go. John, Griffin, Brothers Anselm and Cadfael and the Widow Nest have arrived in the meantime to accompany her. Eluned stayed in the Boneth house to watch the babe, together with her own.

Before they would leave, though, Brother Anselm handed Rannilt a thick, beautifully made beeswax candle, the handiwork of Brother Bernhard, who was responsible for the beehives of the abbey.

“This has to be lighted when you enter the church,” he explained. “Keep it after the ceremony and burn it down when your son becomes one year old. It has been blessed at Saint Winifred’s altar.”

Rannilt thanked him demurely, and they all headed towards the Holy Cross Church together. Father Adam met them at the door; he made the sign of the cross with shaking hands and sprinkled Rannilt with holy water, while Brother Anselm recited a psalm.

Holding one end of the old priest’s stole, Rannilt followed him into the nave, while Father Adam said: “Enter the temple of God, adore the Son of the holy Virgin Mary, who has given you the blessing of motherhood.”

Once within the church, Brother Anselm sang a hymn to the holy Virgin that filled their hearts with rapture. ‘Twas a true marvel how a man of his age, with a fairly deep voice when he spoke, could sing the upper voice sweeter and higher than any choir boy – but that was the reason why he had been selected as the precentor of the abbey, after all. It sounded like music coming directly from heaven.

With a final blessing, the churching ceremony was to end, and they could leave the church to have a feast for the godparents, family and friends. At least that was what a well-to-do woman would have done. Rannilt, however, was not a well-to-do woman… and she had only one concern on her mind.

“Please, Brother,” she begged Cadfael, “may I see Liliwin now?”

Cadfael smiled down at her with great pity. “Certainly, child. I shall take you to him myself, at once.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the transept chapel, the heavy coffin (borrowed from Martin Bellecote’s workshop) had been set up on a draped trestle, the shrouded body of Liliwin reverently laid out within it. Rannilt stood there, looking down at her beloved husband’s dead face for a long time, without tears or words. She knew she had to be strong, for the sake of their child, in whom Liliwin’s life would be continuing on. She could not break down in tears of faint or anything like that. For Liliwin’s sake, she would mourn with dignity.

To her surprise, she found that it would not be too painful to remember him this: beautiful yet remote in death, the fine bones of his thin face and brow and pointy chin just a bit more outlined than in life, his contracted and waxen flesh barely paler than it always had been, due to perpetual weariness and never enough food. His hair, carefully cleaned and combed by the good brothers, framed his wide brow like spun gold… almost as if he would be merely sleeping, his long lashes casting shadows on his sunken cheeks.

“He looks like an angel,” she whispered, and unshed tears filled her eyes, no matter how much she tried to hold them back.

“Shall we cover him?” asked John Boneth gently.

The sound of his voice, however, soft, startled her. She looked up at him, uncertain what to do. The young man who’d taken them in and cared for them, out of the goodness of his generous heart, awaited her decision patiently; he was so large and comely and calm, radiating safety… his presence warmed her wounded heart.

After a moment, she remembered that he’d asked her a question, though, and nodded slowly.

“That would be the best, yes,” she said haltingly. “Lest the ones who have taken him from me so cruelly would do something to his body… I cannot expect any-one to guard his coffin ‘til the funeral.”

Cadfael had to admit that her concern was not entirely without reason, as disturbing as it sounded… and that saddened him greatly. That in a decent town like Shrewsbury a widow would have to fear for the laid-out body of her dead husband! That was unconceivable… and yet, in the light of the recent events, it was not.

_What has this world come to_ , he thought in regret.

“Yet afore you do so,” she continued shyly, “I’d like to give him something… something to take with him into his grave… I just don’t know _what_. He’d prefer one of his painted rings or wooden balls, I know, but those have been robbed, just like his rebec, and I have nothing to give him – _nothing_!”

That seemed to distress her greatly, and she had a hard time to hold back her bitter tears.

“The coffin would only be temporary closed,” Cadfael reminded her. “You still can bring your parting gift to the funeral tomorrow.”

She looked at him with dark, haunted eyes. “But I have nothing to bring, Brother! Nothing at all!”

“Yes, you do,” said John Boneth. “Your child was born with hair; you can cut off one of the babe’s curls and give it to Liliwin for his last journey. I cannot think of anything he would love more to have with him.”

Apparently, that had been the right suggestion, for Rannilt’s tears started to flow freely. Mistress Boneth took her in a motherly hug, as if she were a daughter of her own, and held her in mute comfort while John and Griffin fastened the lid of the coffin, so that no malevolent hands would be able to desecrate the body within.

“Leave him to me,” said Cynric in his gruff voice. “I shall keep an eye on him. An old man like me does not need so much sleep anymore…”

“… and holding vigil for the dead is approved of in heaven,” added Brother Benedict gravely. “I shall help you. As Father Abbot said, we do have an obligation.”

Rannilt thanked them all profoundly. Afterwards, she remained kneeling on the stones of the transept for quite a while, unaware of the discomfort of it, her eyes wide open and all the time fixed upon the closed coffin on its draped stand before the altar. To lie thus in the church of the great abbey, where he had already found sanctuary once, where they had first known each other as man and wife, to have a special Mass sung for him by Brother Anselm, his benefactor, and then to be taken to the churchyard on the abbey grounds for burial… he would have liked it, of that she was certain.

He had always spoken of the abbey and of Brothers Anselm and Cadfael with great fondness and gratitude. And he would be even more grateful to know that his widow and their child had found a safe haven in Mistress Boneth’s house.

Mistress Boneth touched her shoulder briefly, indicating that they should go now. She nodded obediently and rose from her knees at least, with only a little help from Griffin who had been waiting faithfully in the corner of the chapel, devoted to her as only God’s simpletons could be devoted to the people kind to them. In him, she would always have a protector – he might be slow-witted, but he was strong and quick, if he had to be.

Shaking out her crumpled skirts, Rannilt slowly walked out of the chapel into the nave of the church, leaning on the daft boy’s arm. From him, she could accept such kindness, without starting any talk. Not only was he known for his child-like mind, he was also still too young to become the subject of gossip.

She felt calm and gathered, ‘til – rounding the clustered stone pillars at the corner of the crossing – she suddenly and unexpectedly came face to face with a shadowy figure. One that had haunted her dreams ever since the attack on the roadside. The long face, framed with shaggy hair, was only half-visible and pale like a ghost’s, but she recognized it anyway.

She did not have the strength to cry out or to point at the phantom, naming him as one of Liliwin’s murderers. She just hung on Griffin’s arm for dear life, shaking like a leaf and close to fainting, too frightened to even raise her eyes again.

The others, realising that something must have happened, gathered around him in concern, asking questions and urging her to tell them what was wrong, but she found she could not. All she could think of was the safety of her child, now that she had been confronted with one of the murderers for the very first time.

When she was finally whisked away by a clucking Mistress Boneth, Hugh Beringar, who had arrived late for the ceremony but early enough to witness her extreme reaction, looked at Cadfael askance.

“And what, pray tell, do you make of this?”

“She’s seen someone in that shadowy corner,” answered Cadfael thoughtfully. “Someone who frightened her greatly. She is just too afraid to speak about it… afraid for herself, afraid for her child, afraid for her husband’s body… and not without reason, I would say.”

“One of the murderers?” Hugh guessed. Cadfael nodded.

“It must have been. The corner at those columns was empty when I checked, but I came out after her. There _must_ have been someone; ‘tis not so that it would be hard to hide in there.”

“In that case,” said Hugh slowly, “I probably should have both the chapel and Mistress Boneth’s house watched. The murderers are apparently braver than we’d have thought.”

“Braver… or more desperate,” Cadfael agreed. “Not that the latter would be any safer for Rannilt; on the contrary. Desperate men are capable of horrible things. Yes, do put a watch on the house. You can have the chapel to us. Between Cynric and us, we shall keep an eye on Liliwin’s coffin. ‘Tis only one more day, after all.”

Hugh agreed and left to give his men the necessary orders. There was no feast to celebrate Rannilt’s churching in Mistress Boneth’s house on that day.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the next morrow, the parish Mass was sung by Brother Anselm, as Father Adam was already too weakened with illness to do aught else but attend. Abbot Radulfus, however, insisted to deliver the homily in his august person, which was an unprecedented honour for an all-but-nameless vagabond like poor Liliwin, and surprised more than a few people, within the abbey and outside of it.

Cadfael understood the abbot’s motivation, though. Radulfus not only did this out of any obligation he might still feel for the young man who’d once sought – and received – his protection. He also did it to protect the poor man’s widow and child; to show the murderers that he was still holding his hand over Rannilt and the babe, and that everyone who intended to harm them, had to count on his utmost displeasure.

And the abbot of such a rich and powerful abbey as Saint Peter and Paul’s had a great variety of ways to make his displeasure keenly felt.

“Not that Father Abbot’s displeasure would truly hold them back from whatever they may be planning,” Cadfael told Hugh Beringar in concern as they followed Liliwin’s coffin into the church, where it was temporarily placed before the parish altar. “After all, one of them has come to the church yesterday to spy upon Rannilt.”

“But the coffin has not been disturbed, has it?” asked Hugh.

Cadfael shook his head. “No, thank God for small favours. Cynric, Benedict and I took turns between us to watch the chapel. No-one else came there all night.”

“Well, that’s at least something,” said Hugh philosophically. “Father Abbot’s homily was very… educational, I’d say. The murderers must realise by now that they cannot count on any support from the townspeople.”

“Not from the majority, no,” agreed Cadfael. “But there are a few bad eggs in every basket, it seems. It saddens me greatly that such things can happen in our town, but as the Desert Fathers would say, the devil never sleeps. I shall be mightily glad when we’ve finally solved this mystery, so that the poor child would no longer have to live in fear.”

“Have you succeeded in finding a witness who might have seen yesterday’s uninvited visitor in the church?” asked Hugh.

Cadfael shook his head. “No; but ‘tis not truly surprising. The church doors are open all the time, and it is huge, with many shadowy corners. _Anyone_ could sneak in and out again, unnoticed. ‘Was worth a try, but ultimately, it led to nothing. What about you? Has Will Warden learned aught in the Three Tree Slot inn?”

“He hadn’t got around going there yet,” admitted Hugh. “My men have many duties, and we had vague reports of footpads being sighted along the road; we had to investigate. But Will promised that he would go there as soon as he can. Let’s hope that the innkeeper knows something that we do not.”

In the meantime, John Boneth and Griffin had places the coffin on a bier, consisting of two poles with wooden cross-pieces, upon which to carry it out of the church. Cynric now removed the lid of the coffin and helped Father Adam walk up to it. The old priest censed the body and sprinkled it with holy water; that alone exhausted him so much that he had to lean on Cynric’s wiry arm for support heavily.

Brother Anselm took over for him, speaking the Lord’s Prayer, in which all joined. Then he pronounced the Absolutions and nodded to Brother Benedict to intone a series of prayers and antiphons of forgiveness and deliverance from judgement, especially as Liliwin had dried unshriven. Brother Benedict had a fine, sonorous voice, which magnified to fill the entire vault as he read the verses in-between the antiphons, and at every ending came the insistent versicle, repeated by the whole gathering.

_Requiem aeternam done eis, Domine…  
Et lux perpetua luceat eis…_

And Brother Benedict continued on, in that deep and splendid voice of his.

_My soul is very weary of my life_  
I will speak in the bitterness of my soul  
I will say unto God  
Do not condemn me,  
Show me wherefore thou contendest with me… 

No, there was truly not much comfort in the Book of Job, even though the words themselves were beautiful, perchance among the finest poetry that could be found in the Scripture. And yet, as the office continued on, Cadfael could see the fear and sorrow on Rannilt’s small face transcend into severe acceptance. Perhaps she _did_ find some kind of comfort in the beauty of the words; in the fact that the abbey was granting her husband such honour as performing the solemn Office of the Dead on his behalf.

Or perhaps acceptance was the only way for her to come to terms with her terrible loss – with losing the only person who truly loved her. Or perhaps, in the end, the entreaty itself proved to be a reassurance for her, rising one step beyond hope, towards the certainty of a better life; an eternal life in the never-ending love of the Creator.

_Rest eternal grant unto them o Lord…  
And light perpetual shine upon them…_

When the office had come to its end, John Boneth, Griffin and two of the abbey’s lay servants, named Will and Daniel, lifted the coffin and carried it in procession out from the north door, followed by the mourners who were carrying burning candles. They carried the bier all along the Foregate, and in at the great double gate just around the corner from the horse-fair ground, where the laity had access, instead of through the monastic court. For all that Liliwin had been considered to be under the protection of the abbey, a certain separateness had to be preserved, for the sake of the quietude necessary to the Rule.

Cynric had already trimmed the candles of the parish altar and gone out through the cloister to the graveyard, where the open grave waited, covered decorously with planks. He now removed to the planks an saw that all was in readiness for the final rite.

When the procession reached the grave, Father Adam, supported by Brother Anselm, sprinkled it with holy water and drew a shallow trench in the shape of a cross into the upturned earth. The four men carrying the coffin let it down to the ground; John Boneth and Griffin took Liliwin’s shrouded body out of it and gently lowered it into the grave.

Mistress Boneth and the Widow Nest now led Rannilt to the open grave to allow her to speak her final farewells. She had the curl cut off from their child’s head and dropped it onto Liliwin’s body. Her face was still serene and almost eerily calm, her lips moving tonelessly as she was either speaking her prayers – or her parting words to her deceased husband. The two older women allowed her a moment of privacy; then they gently led her away, so that Cynric and the two lay servants could begin to fill in the grave, while the final collect of forgiveness was spoken.

As Rannilt had no means to afford a tombstone, they had simply stomped the hearth hard over the body and set up a wooden cross at the head side, with Liliwin’s name on it… and nothing else, as the poor lad had not even known himself how old he had been. A funeral lamp was placed at the foot of the cross; it would burn out within the next weeks. Then the procession returned to the church, singing the Seven Penitential Psalms. The coffin the lay servants took back to the cloister for Martin Bellecote and his son to collect it later.

Cadfael had been watching the morning crowd and the onlookers – who had been surprisingly numerous – with great interest, wondering if he would find any familiar faces… and he did. He could spot John Weaver in the crowd, as well as Warin, the clerk of Mistress Emma and Roger Clothier; Bertred from the Vestier business, Edric Flesher’s journeyman, Gunnar, the manservant of the Hyndes, the elderly clerk of the wool merchant Lythwood as well as the shepherd who tended to the sheep of the Lythwoods, and many more small people from the lower classes.

All good, decent people, whom one would not have trusted with such abominable deeds. And yet was it not the good, decent people who committed terrible sins when they broke under the pressure?

Cadfael shook his head in regret. So much had happened in the last few days: a cowardly attack on an innocent, childbirth, death, christening, churching, a funeral – and yet they were no closer to solving the mystery than they had been at the beginning. Liliwin’s murderers were still running free. Rannilt and her child were still in grave peril.

He could only hope and pray that they would find out the truth ere another tragedy happened.


	6. Shepherdless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER SIX – SHEPHERDLESS**

The next tragedy hit a little more than a week later – but differently than Cadfael had expected. Right after Liliwin’s funeral, Father Adam had fallen seriously ill and died within a few days, on the last day of November.

Needless to say that Abbot Radulfus was even more loath to leave, now that he was faced with the question of a successor for such a beloved priest, whose loss was being lamented by all. Even less so as the adowson rested with the Abbey, which meant additional responsibilities for him; although the not-quite-voluntary visit at Westminster might turn out useful in the solving of this particular problem. Plenty of able clerics could be found there in the bishop’s household, of which he might be able to choose a suitable one for the parish of Holy Cross.  
  
“Father Adam has been a much valued associate for many years, working diligently and with no regard of his own strength on the worship of God and the salvation of souls,” he said at Chapter, the day before he would set off for Westminster, “Choosing his successor will be a matter of careful consideration and much prayer. 'Til my return, Father Prior will direct the parish services as he thinks fit, and all of you will follow his lead obediently.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Abbot Radulfus left for Westminster right after he had presided at Father Adam’s funeral. At about the same time, Hugh Beringar also began preparing himself for departure, as he, too, had been summoned away. King Stephen had decided to keep Christmas at Canterbury that year, and to demosntrate his own return to power, for all to see which of the two royal heads was the rightful sovereign of the English countries. To this end, he had called all his sheriffs to give him their reports aboutt he state of their shires. And as Shropshire had not had a properly appointed sheriff since the death of Gilbert Prestcote, who had died of his battle wounds and of the act of a desperate man, at a time when Stephen was already a prisoner in Bristol Castle with no power to appoint an official successor, as Prestoce's deputy, Hugh had been called among the rest.

He had stepped into the office of the sheriff out of pure necessity and maintained the peace in the shire without authority, yet with great skill and wisdom for someone still fairly young. ‘Twas an open question nonetheless, whether the King would confirm a nobleman of his age and moderate importance in an office that important, or use the appointment to bind some powerful baron of shifting loyalties to his side.

“I hope to speak with Father Abbot after his return before I shall have to leave town myself,” he said to Cadfael. They were sitting in the monk’s workshop in the herb garden. “It would be helpful if I could render the king account about what occurred at the legatine council at Westminster; how his brother the bishop would try to turn his coat again and make it palpable for his other prelates to swing back to Stephen’s side as well.”

“Let’s hope this will be the last time he has to turn about-face,” said Cadfael, feeding his brazier with a few well-placed turves to keep it burning with a slow and tempered heat. “It does cast an unfavourable light at the church, the way he spins around with every wind. More so as he represents both Pope and Church and must therefore preserve the infallibility of both at all costs.”

“The belief in which has undoubtedly suffered a great deal due to his recent actions,” Hugh agreed. “I wish we had someone like your Abbot Radulfus in office at Westminster. He would, no doubt, carry himself more respectably.”

“Only if he had an interest in martyrdom,” replied Cadfael drily, “which I doubt he has. But our Father Abbot is a shrewd and worldly man, as much as he is a man of God… and I mean that in the best sense of the world. Even if he _had_ to bend under the pressure of secular powers, he’d do so with a great deal more skill and dignity.”

“Which is exactly why I hope to speak with him ere I leave to see the King,” said Hugh with a weary sigh.

“And _I hope_ that we shall able to make some headway in finding Liliwin’s murderers ere you’d leave,” said Cadfael grimly. “Once you’re out of town, the culprits would, no doubt, believe their chance has come to silence the only witness. Rannilt will be in great danger; and so might be, perchance, Mistress Boneth, for having taken her into her house.”

“I shall leave orders with Alan to see into the case during my absence,” Hugh promised. “And Will Warden will keep his eyes and ears open, too.”

Cadfael nodded, unconvinced. Alan Herbard, Hugh’s deputy, was the son of a knight; young, athletic and fairly skilled in arms but still new in office. He did everything committed to him with a flourish, but the truth was, any one of the sergeants was better equipped for the task of a murder investigation. And while he was eager and meticulous and made every round of his responsibilities twice, for fear he might have missed something the first time, people simply would not talk to him (or to Hugh, for that matter) with the same openness they talked to the sergeants.

“I hope we can bring some light into this sad matter before my departure, though,” added Hugh, who was all too aware of this himself. “Will Warden is like a dog with a bone; he won’t let go until he’s found out the truth.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In the meantime, aforementioned Will Warden was facing a small but undeniable problem. The investigation the lord sheriff had entrusted him would require to go to the small tavern in the Three-Tree-Shut and ask questions… or, at the very least, to listen and watch, in hope to hear something that might prove useful.

Now, he was known across town to favour _Wat’s Tavern_ all times. Would he show up in the other ale-house all of a sudden, people would know at once that he was up to something. That might scare the murderers into hiding again, instead of revealing themselves when the ale had loosened their tongues.

Fortunately, he was also well aware of the preferences of the men-at-arms under command. Thus he took one of them – one he knew favoured the small inn in question – to the side to have an earnest word with him.

“Listen to me, Jehan, my lad,” he said. “You know about the assault on the minstrel and his family; and that he’s dead now.”

Jehan, a big-boned, ruddy-faced young man in his thirties, nodded with rapt attention. Of course he knew about it. Everyone in town did. He’d even guarded the locksmith’s workshop for one night, to see that no harm would come to the injured minstrel and his pregnant little wife.

“Now, the lord sheriff wants us to look into the case; but discretely, so that we shan’t startle the perpetrators,” continued the sergeant. “I’d like _you_ to help me with this.”

Jehan nodded again, eagerly, seeing the chance to finally get that promotion he had been longing for since he had ruined his chances with Gilbert Prestcote in the Domville murder case. Back then, more than two years ago, he had listened to the whispers of the true murderer and gone off after an innocent man – and that without sending word either to one of the sergeants or to the sheriff himself, allowing them to go out into the woods on a wild goose chase.

He could count himself lucky for having escaped a whipping, but he had known that promotion would not come his way as long as Sheriff Prestcote would remember that mistake. Unfortunately for him, Gilbert Prestcote had a very long memory in such things. But now it seemed that he might earn himself some credit with helping the most experienced sergeant, who might put in a good word for him.

“What shall I do?” he asked.

“I heard you favour the inn of the Three-Tree-Shut,” said Will. “I want you to go there, have an ale or two, and keep your ears and eyes open. Should any one mention the assault, or, indeed, the minstrel at all, or should you see anyone trying to sell a rebec, or any of those painted wooden rings and balls he used when doing his tricks, I want you to mark the names and faces and tell me at once. Do _not_ go off on your own to investigate. Bring me the news, and I shall see that the lord sheriff knows about your contribution. Do you understand me?”

Jehan was not the least displeased at being given the task of enquiring in his favourite ale-house – not to mention the chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the new sheriff for any past indiscretions – and left with a hopeful spring in his step. Perhaps this case would bring about the promotion he had dreamed of for so long. And if not, he would still be spending the one or other pleasant hour in the tavern.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The small tavern generally known as the _Three-Tree-Shut_ , after its location, was perched like some bird’s nest in a narrow, secluded close off the upper end of the steep, descending Wyle, situated half-way between Saint Alkmund’s church and the town gate. The small lanes leading to it were shut between high walls; indeed, it would serve well for people who wanted to debate their issues over a pot of ale, without being eavesdropped on.

Twas a modest little place, favoured by small-purse customers, and its ale could not even come close to the one offered in _Wat’s Tavern_. But for some people the weak ale served here was good enough – not every-one could afford Wat’s prices, even though they were not unreasonably high.

Stepping into the dark little pot room that was already filling with the smoke of the hearth-fire, Jehan saw the usual crowd scattered at the tables. There was Will Wharton, the journeyman of Thomas Farrier, whose messuage stood next to Judith Perle’s house in the Abbey Foregate, near the horse-fair. A big, well set-up fellow he was, close to Jehan’s own age, with a stubborn set to his jaw and watery blue eyes.

He was sitting with the carter’s man, a fresh-faced country youth whose name Jehan did not know, although he had seen the lad here frequently – and always in the company of Will Wharton.

“He’s having a bit of a misfortune, the poor lad,” the potman commented, coming out from behind the counter and placing the usual tankard of ale before Jehan.

A little man of slender bones and lean but wiry flesh the Ailwyn was, just this side of fifty, with a thin, deeply lined, beardless face and dark, observant eyes that saw everything that happened in the tavern, but he rarely spoke about anything he might have seen, thinking it wiser to let things go their own way.

“How so?” inquired Jehan, taking a sip of his ale.

Ailwyn shrugged. “He’d seen better days, our Arald has. Used to be a groom in the service of Messire Ivo Corbiere at Stanton Cobbold and came with his master to St. Peter’s Fair two years ago.”

Jehan frowned. “With the young lord who had Master Thomas of Bristol murdered?”

“Him, and that glove-maker from Shotwick, the man of the Earl of Chester,” Ailwyn nodded. “They say that his older groom, Ewald or whatever his name was, and that Thurstan Fowler, his falconer, committed the actual murder.”

“That’s true,” said Jehan. “The falconer was hanged for it, shortly thereafter. My lord Prestcote had a heavier hand than Lord Beringar has; though for murder, he would have hanged in any case. But I thought the younger groom was not involved in his master’s schemes.”

“He was not,” Ailwyn agreed. “Nonetheless, he found no decent employment after the death of his master, whose manors had been seized. He is living off small, temporary tasks, mostly given him by Rychart Nyall, the carter. Most of the time, he’s sitting here, waiting for someone to hire him.”

“I wonder how it came that Will Wharton would befriend him so quickly,” said Jehan thoughtfully.

“That I cannot tell for certain,” replied Ailwyn, “but I presume they must have met through work. The carter often needs to have his horses shoed, so ‘tis not surprising that his help and the farrier’s journeyman would know each other.”

“True enough,” admitted Jehan, glumly about the complete lack of useful news.

“They are here almost every evening,” added the potman confidentially. “Often with John Weaver and that unsavoury fellow who serves old William Hynde… Gunnar is his name, I believe.”

“I wonder where John Weaver still has the coin to drink,” said Jehan with a frown. “’Tis said Mistress Emma keeps him on a very tight leash.”

“That might be so,” the potman shrugged, “But there’s always one who would buy him one more ale. They feel for him, losing his home and his business, even if it was mostly his fault.”

He nodded and left Jehan alone to deliver the other customers their drinks. Jehan nursed his ale for a while yet, watching the unlikely pair of friends: the farrier’s journeyman big, brawny and loud-voiced; the former groom of a noble household, now fallen from grace, still fresh-faced and youthful-looking, but the darks shadows under his eyes spoke of unhappiness and exhaustion.

Arald was wearing a fine leather jerkin quite above his current status; perchance a remainder of better days, as his well-made clothes of good homespun. But the clothes were patched in some places and threadbare in other ones; and the back of the left shoulder of his jerkin scrubbed pallid and dull from all that carrying he must have done, for the carter and for other people, to eke out for himself a meagre living.

There could be little doubt that the former groom was leading a much harsher life than he had done in the service of Messire Corbiere. But that also made it unlikely that _he_ would have been the one to buy John Weaver an ale or two. He must have been lucky if he could pay for his own drinks, by the look of him.

And yet these three apparently spent a great deal of time together. Three men of different ages and occupation, who should not have anything to do with each other…

Jehan finished his ale, dropped some coin onto the counter for Ailwyn and left to report his sergeant what he had learned, little though as it might be.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“I find it interesting how all paths seem to lead back to Mistress Emma,” said Hugh Beringar on the next day. He was returning from the castle to his own townhouse when he ran – almost literally – into Cadfael, who was on his way to the Boneth house to see how Rannilt and her child were doing.

Cadfael looked at him sceptically. “Are you trying to tell me that Emma Corviser is behind the assault? I find that a little hard to believe.”

Hugh snorted, half-amused and half-annoyed.

“Of course _not_. What I’m trying to say is that a surprising number of people whose names came up in this matter have something to do with her. There is John Weaver, whom she’d bought out of house and business. There is Gregory, one of her late uncle’s men, who _might_ have tried to sell Liliwin’s rebec at Longner. There’s Arald, who’d accompanied her and Ivo Corbiere on the way to Stanton Cobbold, where she was trapped and nearly killed.”

“There are also Will Wharton and that Gunnar who’ve never had anything to do with her,” Cadfael pointed out. “You are seeing conspiracies where there are none. Unless…” he trailed off. Hugh waited patiently, knowing by now how his old friend’s mind worked. “Hugh, there’s another name that keeps coming up, together with those of Gregory and John Weaver…”

“Eddi Rede,” said Hugh grimly. “But what possible reason could _he_ have to plot something with those two? He’s the son of a valued Abbey clerk; even if his reputation is a bit… questionable, why should he take part in such a lowly act?”

“There must be something we still don’t know,” said Cadfael thoughtfully. “What if Eddi had his eyes on Mistress Emma, too? She was without a proper guardian, with a handsome dowry – and a great beauty herself. Eddi might have entertained the idea of marrying her and her money, in the hope that her purse strings would be less tightly drawn than those of his father’s.”

“Perhaps so,” Hugh allowed, “but how would _that_ explain the attack on Liliwin and his family?”

“Not at all,” admitted Cadfael. “There might not even be a proper reason, I fear. They might have just vented their frustration by hurting someone even more unlucky than themselves.”

“And how would they know where to look for them?” asked Hugh. “I cannot imagine Eddi Rede going from manor to manor in search for a suitable victim.”

“He would not need to,” replied Cadfael. “That lad Arald works for Rychart Nyall from time to time. A carter and his help get around a lot. He might have seen Liliwin and Rannilt while running some errand for the carter and told his friends in Ailwyn’s tavern about it. If some of them were drunk and unhappy enough, there did not have to be any real need for a reason.”

“True enough,” said Hugh with a sigh. “I shall send Will Warden to speak with the carter, then.”

“No, leave that to me,” said Cadfael. “He’ll be coming to Brother Hospitaller to discuss with him bringing some sheep back from Rhydycroesau to be slaughtered. It will seem natural enough for me to speak with him then.”

Hugh had to admit that this was very true. Still, he did not like learning things from second hand; not even if said second hand belonged to Cadfael.

“You’ll tell me everything you may learn, won’t you?” he asked.

“Don’t I always?” replied Cadfael placidly and continued his way to the Boneth house.

“I could mention a few exceptions,” muttered Hugh, but there was no help. He needed to prepare himself for his departure to leave everything in the best possible order for young Alan Herbard, who would act as deputy sheriff in his absence.

That meant to leave Liliwin’s case to Cadfael and Will Warden, unless they managed to find the murderers before he would leave. The chances for _that_ did not seem promising, with one of the important witnesses, Mistress Emma’s Gregory, in Bristol, and no hard proof at hand.

He shook his head in frustration and went on to return home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The Boneth house could in no way be compared with the rich burgages of the Aurifabers or the Vestiers; not even with the Weaver business, now belonging to Emma Corviser. Not only was it considerably smaller, but what must once have been the shop had been turned into a solar, serving both as living and dining room. It had a low ceiling and, despite the hearth fire blazing under the hood of a large chimney, it was more than a little chilly.

Unlike other such rooms in respective burgher homes, though, this one was surprisingly well-lit, due to the fact that the large shop windows had not been walled in but merely covered with parchment. As long as the horizontal shutters were opened, light could come in, almost unhindered. Of course, the same large windows were responsible for the chilliness of the solar, but that could not be helped. Not even the panels of linen cloth, dyed in merry colours, were much help.

Nevertheless, one could see that this had once been the house of a well-to-do craftsman (John’s grandfather’s, to be accurate) and was on his way to become such a house again. There was a large wooden cupboard, displaying plates and eating utensils of silver, and a low buffet for the pottery and tinware used every day. Other cupboards and chests for table linens and other household necessities formed a neat row opposite the door, so that visitors could see them and be impressed by the – still moderate – wealth of the family.

When Cadfael entered, he found Mistress Boneth sitting on the low bench near the hearth, stitching away on something that looked like a tiny, long-sleeved tunic, clearly meant for a very young child. It also seemed a fairly old piece of clothing, just like the swaddling bands and the baptizing robe; it must have belonged to John, or to his sister who had died in childhood. The widow seemed to take her responsibility as a godmother very seriously – knowing her generous heart, perchance more seriously than most.

Rannilt was sitting on the other side of the hearth, also doing needlework on some old linen shirt of John’s that needed to be patched. She was clad as if she had been the daughter of the widow, not someone taken in out of charity: in a dark blue tunic with sleeves laced from wrist to elbow, topped by a surcoat of the same colour, caught at the waist by a belt, with full sleeves that revealed those of the tunic underneath. Her dark hair, neatly parted in the middle and properly plaited, was hidden under a white linen wimple and covered with a black veil to signal her recently widowed status – a sad thing for someone so young. Her shoes were soft leather with thin soles, obviously well-worn, but still a great deal better than the ones she had previously owned.

By the sight of her, she could have been the wife or the daughter of a respected burgher indeed, or that of a well-to-do craftsman, even though the clothes had clearly been worn by another person before her. Cadfael suspected they must have belonged to Mistress Boneth in her youth and had been put to the side for a daughter who had not lived long enough to need them.

All the more surprising it was that she would take them out _now_ , to clad a complete stranger in them; and one way beneath her own status. But perhaps her longing for grandchildren John had failed to give her so far had motivated her. All the better for Rannilt and her child. Liliwin had given his life to protect them, and it seemed he might have bought them a better future by his sacrifice.

Mistress Boneth put her needlework away as she rose to greet their visitor.

“Brother Cadfael! So good of you to see after our little one each day,” she said heartily, waving him into the room with a sweeping gesture.

Rannilt just gave him a timid look from under her long eyelashes and nodded.

“I have my duties as a godfather,” replied Cadfael complacently. “How is he doing today?”

“He sleeps a lot and is a very good babe all around,” explained Mistress Boneth. “I wish he had a better appetite, though. He needs more flesh on those small bones of his.”

“Neither of his parents was particularly big and brawny,” Cadfael reminded her. “There’s no need to worry if he remains a little skinny. More so as Rannilt has not enough milk to feed him. Now, let me take a look at him.”

Rannilt picked up the babe from the cradle that stood in the warmest corner of the room and brought him forth. The child was awake and in a good mood… and adorable, with his periwinkle-blue eyes and the soft golden curls framing his tiny face. He looked at Cadfael with an earnest expression, grabbed hold on the proffered big, brown finger, pulled it to his tiny mouth and began happily gnawing on it with his toothless gums.

“The little worm!” said Mistress Boneth, ruefully fond like a loving grandmother. “ _Now_ he wants to eat!”

“He looks healthy enough, even though he _is_ a little thin,” judged Cadfael. “Try to give him less to eat, but more often; that might trigger a greater appetite in him.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Rannilt nodded obediently and took the child to her own room to have him fed and changed. Cadfael gave Mistress Boneth a thoughtful look.

“You seem to have grown very fond of Rannilt,” he commented neutrally. “You even clad her if she were one of your own status. That might become a thorn in some people’s side. Are you certain you are doing her a favour?”

The widow nodded. “I am no fool, Brother; I know this as well as you. But what am I supposed to do? Let her walk around in rags while these clothes have been waiting all the years for someone to wear them? I so hoped that John would find a suitable bride… have hoped ever since he had became the journeyman of Master Peche; and even more so since he had taken over the locksmith business, but…” she shrugged. “He cannot forget the goldsmith’s girl.”

“And yet marriages are often born out of reasonable calculation rather than out of passionate love,” said Cadfael. “There is nothing shameful in that, as long as both sides are grown and willing. It can be very beneficial, I heard, to have a spouse selected by a neutral eye.”

“That is what I told John in the very morning when Rannilt and her husband were attacked,” replied Mistress Boneth. “Yet he wouldn’t listen. We’ve had so many arguments about this, but in this one matter, he wouldn’t back off a step. He wants to find someone he can love again, even if I – or, indeed, all other people in town – wouldn’t find her suitable, and that’s that. He’s a good man, my boy is, but he can be very stubborn. And I believe he is still hurting.”

“And so you chose a different approach,” said Cadfael slowly, beginning to understand things. “As he’s already fond and protective of Rannilt and her babe, you hope that – with proper encouragement – it could turn into something more serious.”

“Easy familiarity and fondness can build the way to real closeness,” answered the widow simply. “Rannilt may be a penniless orphan, but you’ve seen her, Brother: she can become the wife of a respected craftsman and learn how to act as that status would demand from her. She does not have the beauty of Susanna, true; but she’s lovely and loyal and brave. She has learned how to run a household in the Aurifaber house and is not afraid to make her hands dirty by working hard. I admit, she is not what I have dreamed of as a daughter-in-law, but… John could do a lot worse.”

Cadfael considered all those arguments for a while; then he nodded in agreement. Yes, John Boneth could have done a lot worse, marrying the spoiled daughter of one of his fellow master craftsmen for her dowry and live with her in a cold, loveless marriage. Rannilt would never love him with the all-consuming passion she had felt for Liliwin; but she would love and respect him on a wholly different level. She would be loyal and faithful to him, out of respect and gratitude, and run his household smoothly.

That she was already liked and accepted by his mother would only be an added bonus. Yes, it _could_ work.

“You are a wise and level-headed woman, Mistress Boneth,” he said respectfully. “Not every mother would be willing to make such compromises.”

The widow shrugged tiredly. “He is my only son, and I want him happy. I believe Rannilt _can_ make him happy… happier than Susanna would ever have. Even if the goldsmith had been willing to marry her off to a mere journeyman locksmith… which he never would.”

“No, I don’t think so, either,” Cadfael agreed. “You must be very careful with this plan of yours, though. If John finds out what you are doing, he won’t take it kindly.”

“I need not to hurry,” replied Mistress Boneth. “Rannilt is still grieving, and she cannot think of remarrying for at least a year, as custom demands. A year is a long time. I can wait and watch and see that things develop in the proper direction.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Rannilt, who put the changed and now sleeping babe back into the cradle. She was calm and serene as some people are after a grievous loss but strong enough to face the demands of a new life that she was still learning to lead. Perhaps once Liliwin’s murderers were caught and hanged she would, indeed, grow into the role of a master craftsman’s wife.

Which reminded Cadfael of a question he had meant to ask her.

“Child I am loath to stir up bad memories,” he said, “but was, perchance, one of your attackers wearing a leather jerkin? One that has seen better days?”

Rannilt became deathly pale at once and stared at him with huge, fearful eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Have you found him?”

“Perhaps,” said Cadfael evasively, “perhaps not. Let’s just say I’ve got a suspicion… but no proof. And make you face him, whether he is guilty or innocent, would be dangerous. There are some questions I need to ask before I can say for certain which one is the case.”

“But when you are sure…” she whispered.

“… I shall tell you,” he promised. “You’ll have to come and bear witness anyway, once the men are caught. Till then, be very careful… both of you.”

“Worry not, Brother,” said Mistress Boneth, “we will. I may just be a woman, and no longer a young one, but I’m also the widow of a smith, and I know how to wield a mallet if I have to.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Finishing his visit in the Boneth house, Cadfael reached the Abbey just in time to have a word with Rychart Nyall before Vespers. The carter, a squat, heavily-built man in her early forties, with a broad, ruddy, bearded face, saw no reason why he should not tell him about his recent travels.

“We were mostly working for the foresters and wood-merchants in the last weeks,” he explained readily. “Delivered firewood and charcoal to the small manors in the neighbourhood. As mild as the winter promises to be, no house can afford to run out of ‘em unexpectedly.”

“ _We_?” echoed Cadfael. “Have you taken on an apprentice, then?”

The carter shook his head. “No-one of today’s fine young lads appears to wish to go into the carter business. They feel too fine for mucking out stables and lifting heavy weights, it seems. No, I’ve hired that Arald lad for this tour; the one who used to be a groom at Stanton Cobbold. Not only can he tend to the horses, he isn’t afraid of hauling cargo, either.”

“You seem to like him,” said Cadfael. The carter shrugged.

“I do, He’s a hard worker… _if_ he puts his mind to the task at hand. I even offered him to take him as my apprentice, without a fee. That way, he could have become his own man in the carter business within a mere four years.”

“And he refused?” asked Cadfael in surprise, for that was a very generous offer.

Rychart Nyall shrugged again.

“As I said, Brother; these young ‘uns today are all waiting for something grand coming their way. And they’re angry at the world when it _doesn’t_ come.”

With that, he walked away to find Brother Hospitaller before Vespers and be on his way as soon as possible.

Cadfael went to look after his workshop, before going to the church, but his mind was elsewhere. Even as he was standing in his customary place in the choir and the voice of Brother Anselm soared heavenwards intoning the evening hymn of Advent, Cadfael was mulling over the things he’d learned that day.

So, Arald had, indeed, been abroad at the same time as Liliwin and Rannilt had been looking for a patron for the winter. He _could_ have learned about their failure to find one and their intention to return to Shrewsbury. He _could_ have talked about it in Ailwyn’s small tavern. It _was_ possible that – in a drunk and angry state – they had decided to beat up the minstrel, whoever else was involved in the awful deed.

The one thing he still did not understand was how Eddi Rede would come into the picture. Even if he, too, _was_ feeling angry about the lost chance of marrying the wealthy Emma Vernold, what on Earth might he have had against the poor minstrel? Where could they have met before, if they had met at all?

Until a half-forgotten memory suddenly resurfaced. Eddi Rede _had_ been a guest at Daniel Aurifaber’s wedding, as one of the groom’s drinking and gambling companions. And he _had_ been part of the riff-raff that had nearly beaten Liliwin to death the first time.


	7. Voices of Discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The herb Cadfael rediscovers in his workshop if _fenugreek_ , used by women in the Middle East since ancient times. It has long since been incorporated into modern medicine for the very same purpose as described here. My heartfelt thanks to the generous people at [](http://little-details.livejournal.com/profile)[little_details](http://little-details.livejournal.com/) for their help.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER SEVEN – VOICES OF DISCORD**

On the tenth day of December, Abbot Radulfus returned from Westminster, while Hugh Beringar was still in town. Hearing of this, he called for Hugh at once and held counsel with the young sheriff in the parlour of his own lodging, telling him about the, sadly, all too predictable events of the legatine council.

Bishop Henry de Blois, as it could have been expected, had again managed to talk himself out of the tight spot with his usual eloquence. Once again, the King had forgiven him and all the others who had accepted the Empress out of necessity and to save their own lives. Even though he had made a formal complaint against those who had sworn fealty to him and then suffered him to lie in prison, in chains.

He had come to the council in his royal person to make that complaint. But that had been all the action taken against the fearful souls with wavering loyalties, for Stephen was not the person to hold long grudges – even if it would have been better for him sometimes. For him and for the whole country that had been suffering from civil war, not the least because of his indecisions and the lack of patience to see _one_ campaign to its end before starting a new one.  
  
“It seems we are back where we began,” said the abbot tiredly, his face still grey and gaunt from the toll this journey had taken on him, “and nothing to show for all those months of misery,” he gave Hugh an inquisitive look. “Brother Cadfael tells me that you, too, have been summoned, to render account of your stewardship to the King. I hope he’ll have the common sense of leaving you in office; for whatever else may be going on in the rest of England, in _this_ shire you have at least managed to keep up the peace.”

“As well as it was possible for me in such troubled times,” Hugh admitted. “I would feel better if we had solved the mystery about poor Liliwin’s murder; alas, it doesn’t seem so.”

“But you do have your suspects, I understand,” said Radulfus, who had briefly questioned Cadfael about the stand of things right after his return.

Hugh nodded. “That we have. But I’d loath to besmirch the good name of any innocent man based on suspicions alone. We still lack any hard evidence, and I’m reluctant to make Rannilt face any of the suspects as long as we don’t have _all_ of them. If only one is still running free, she would be in danger.”

“Who, then, will look into the case while you are gone?” asked the abbot.

“I’ll leave it in Will Warden’s capable hands,” replied Hugh. “He has my full confidence, and able and willing to act with authority in my name.”

“Perhaps rightly so,” said Radulfus, “but will young Alan Herbard not see this as cutting into _his_ authority? That could lead to resentment and much bad blood before the two of them.”

Hugh shook his head. “I spoke with Alan about this and we came to an agreement. He’ll have his hands full with keeping up the peace in my absence; and while a murder case is no small matter, he’ll be better off not being burdened by it.”

“Good,” said Radulfus. “The last thing we need would be a competition for authority among your own men.”

“No,” Hugh agreed. “We have more than enough kin-strife in England as it is. Let’s hope that between you and me, we can at least keep Shrewsbury reasonably safe.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Hugh Beringar left for Canterbury two days later, and the mystery surrounding Liliwin’s violent death soon faded into the background among the townspeople, for they had more pressing issues to discuss – especially those of the Foregate who belonged to the Holy Cross parish.

Abbot Radulfus had brought back with him the replacement for Father Adam: a priest not above thirty-five or so, with a Saxon name yet a dark colouring and a long, olive-skinned countenance that would have put a Saracen prince to shame. He had served as a clerk to Bishop Henry de Blois, it was said, and the bishop wanted to reward him by settling him in a cure. He came with his housekeeper, a respectable widow, and her young nephew, who was at once sent to help with the herb garden, to Cadfael’s unabashed relief.

The people of the Foregate, however, seemed a great deal less happy with their new priest than Cadfael was with his unexpected helper. They had grown used to Father Adam’s gentle chiding and merciful penances – indeed, the younger ones had never known anything else – and this new priest, with his homilies about hellfire, despair and damnation, delivered with frightening eloquence and a fervour deserved by heretics and mass murderers rather than small, repentant sinners, scared them out of their wits.

And if it had been the speeches alone! But Father Ailnoth, as his name was, seemed to have the tempers and the questionable mercy of a Saracen prince, too, in his dealings with his flock. Since he had been as close an associate of Cynric as anyone could ever get to the taciturn verger, Cadfael had learned of the numerous grievances of the parishioners way before Erwald the wheelwright, the provost of the Foregate, would come to Abbot Radulfus, accompanied by a few other notables of the parish, to respectfully complain about the way their new, iron-fisted shepherd tended to his lambs.

The complaints were plentiful already, less than a week after the priest’s arrival. There was the case of Aelgar, for example, who had always worked the fields strips of the priest’s glebe, and cared for the parish bull and the parish boar. A free man, born free like all his kin, whose new master had now raised doubt that he might be a villein, after all – and this over a disputed strip of land!

The mere chance of losing one’s freedom over such a small matter had made the parishioners of the Foregate extremely upset. _Everyone_ within the parish could testify that Aelgar was a free man; yet the fact that the new priest would question it filled them with unease.

There was the case of Jordan Achard, the Foregate baker, whom the new priest had publicly accused of delivering short-weight loaves, although everyone knew that the only thing he ever did justly in his life was his work. He baked a good bread and never cheated in the weight, and was not willing to suffer such accusations gladly. And thus he would speak his dismay loudly and openly, and unease and discord spread across the Foregate like wildfire.

There was the case of Centwin; a poor, decent man, whose newborn babe had died unbaptized, just because the priest would not interrupt his prayers to go to him… and afterwards would deny the child a proper Christian burial in hallowed ground because it had not been baptized.

There was the case of the urchin whose head the new priest had broken with his staff in a fit of rage for playing a ball game against the wall of his house and making a great deal of noise in the process. And while it was true that the boys of the Foregate were far from being little angels, the mother was also rightly indignant about a grown man attacking her son with a heavy walking stick like that.

There was the case of Eadwin, the neighbour of the parish lands in the fields, whose headland had been partially ploughed up because the priest had ordered Aelgar to plough more closely, for the waste of ground would be blameworthy. Other neighbours had similar grievances.

And so, while no-one could say that Father Ailnoth would neglect his duties or did not take jealous case of all the prerequisites of his office – on the contrary, in fact – the clouds were gathering above the Foregate, and even a blind man could see that the outbreak of a storm was only a matter of time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It was less than a week after the abbot’s return from Westminster when tragedy hit again, and in a form no-one would have expected. Cadfael was paying Rannilt’s babe his daily visit and found the child sickly and querulous, as babes sometimes are when they got too little to eat or the food would not agree with them. That surprised him, for so far they had not had such problems with the child.

“I am at a loss what might be ailing him,” he admitted, puzzled. “Have you given him anything different than before?”

“I gave him cow milk,” said Rannilt, clearly fretting about the state of her child; Mistress Boneth was off on some errand and could not help her. “You know, Brother, I have not enough milk to feed him properly, and he was so very hungry.”

“Does Eluned no longer come to nurse him, then?” asked Cadfael with a frown.

Rannilt stared at the floor before her feet as if the fresh rushes covering it would show her something of acute interest.

“Eluned cannot come any longer,” she finally whispered. “She is dead.”

“What?” cried out Cadfael, appalled. “How could that have happened?”

“No one knows for sure,” she answered in a flat voice that revealed that she had a very good idea about the reason… and did not like it. “She was gone for two days; then last night they took her out of the mill-pond. The priest of Saint Chad’s had buried her; as it was not clear how she came to drown, they took it for accident.”

“Yet you believe it differently,” said Cadfael heavily. It was _not_ a question. The two young mothers had become close during the recent weeks; if anyone, Rannilt would know the truth… although it would be doubtful that she would share it with the authorities; especially religious ones.

“What truly happened, I cannot know,” said Rannilt in sorrow. “All I do know is that this black priest who’s taken over for Father Adam refused to gave her absolution and shut the church door into her face. I know this, for she told me herself, crying her heart out in this very room, no longer back than three nights ago. We haven’t seen her ever since; no-one has. But I’m grateful that the priest of Saint Chad’s had more mercy and goodwill than the one who haunts the Holy Cross in these days.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying, girl?” asked Cadfael, chilled to the bone. “Despair is a deadly sin.”

“Then the sin weighs on the conscience of the priest who drives his flock to despair; the very people he is supposed to bring closer to God,” she replied uncompromisingly. “Eluned might have sinned; I _know_ she had. But she was repentant, and she meant it!”

“I know,” said Cadfael placatingly. “Everyone knew, including Father Adam, of that I’m fairly certain.”

“Not _everyone_ , it seems,” countered Rannilt, with such a dark anger in her gentle voice which Cadfael had never heard of her. Not even after she had nearly been killed by Susanna’s desperate and devoted lover. “And now that black priest has driven her to death, and her daughter will perchance die as well, with no mother to feed her. I’d like to help with all my heart, but I’m not even fit to feed my own babe properly,” she was close to stomping with her feet in tearful frustration.

“Speaking of which,” Cadfael steered back the conversation to the actual reason for his coming, “giving your son cow milk might be part of the problem. He’s too young to digest it. Try to give him goat milk instead; or gruel made of oatmeal and water. As for his upset stomach, I’ll give you a cordial for that. You’ll have to send someone to fetch it, though, as I don’t have it on me at the moment.”

“I’ll fetch it for her,” offered Mistress Boneth, entering the solar as she had just come back from her errand.

“No,” said Rannilt determinedly. “I’ll go. I have not left the house since I was churched except for Mass at Saint Mary’s church. I cannot live in fear forever. If one means it ill with me, they’ll find me, wherever I am. I shan’t hide anymore, as if _I were_ the one who had done something wrong.”

“You cannot go out on your own,” protested Mistress Boneth. “’Tis too dangerous!”

“She won’t,” Cadfael interfered, before the two women could get into a real argument. “She’ll be coming with me. And I’ll send Benet back with her; the lad who came with Father Ailnoth and now helps me in the garden, to see her home safely. He’s a good, stout lad and not easily frightened.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As Rannilt seemed determined to go, Mistress Boneth had no other choice than reluctantly let her, while she remained back to watch over the babe. Thus Cadfael and Rannilt walked down Saint Mary’s Street and the Doggepole, then turned to the left onto the Wyle, where the houses were built along little lanes called “shuts”, for the lanes could be shut off for safety. They also provided short-cuts for those going after their business on foot, but Cadfael and Rannilt had no use for them at the moment. They walked straight down the road known as Under the Wyle, crossed the English Bridge and reached the Gaye by climbing the steps at the guarded gatehouse.

As Cadfael was a monk of the Abbey – and a widely-known one at that – nobody stopped them to ask questions. They could go on directly around the Mill-pond and across the herb garden, where a curly-haired young fellow, wearing the drab clothes of a servant, was digging vigorously and looked up at their coming with a mischievous smile.

“That’s my lad Benet,” said Cadfael by way of introductions and went on leading Rannilt to his workshop.

This being the first time she would see the place, Rannilt had only eyes for the hut and none for the youngster who was watching her with interest, for reasons of his own. She ignored him; nay, completely forgot about his very existence, as she came a few paces more into the hut and was looking around her with curiosity and open-mouthed awe.

The arrays of bottles, jars and flagons upon the shelves, the rustling bunches of herbs hanging overhead, the small brass scales on the working table, the three mortars of various sizes for grinding seeds and dried herbs, the little wooden bowls of medicinal roots, the batch of small white lozenges drying on a marble slab… All this appeared to her, who had no herbal knowledge at all, ominous and mysterious at the same time.

It might not seem half that mysterious to Mistress Boneth, though, who was, after all, the daughter of a herb-mistress and a skilled herbalist herself, one who stilled her own share of tinctures and liquors to sell them to those in need. Admittedly, her knowledge was limited, compared with Cadfael’s own, which was understandable, as she had not had the chance to consult foreign healers, but she was said to be very good at the simpler things. Which gave Cadfael an idea.

“Do you know whether Mistress Boneth is lettered?” he asked.

Rannilt, started out of her reverence, nodded. “She does the books of the locksmith business all the time. She even offered to teach me how to read and to write and do the numbers, should her eyesight fail her one day. Master Boneth cannot afford a clerk, and while he _is_ lettered and numbered, he does not like to bother with the books.”

“So Mistress Boneth wants _you_ to take over one day?” Cadfael could not help but admire the widow’s foresight and meticulous planning, with which she tried to give his son’s life a solid foundation.

Rannilt simply nodded. She showed neither concern nor doubt of that perspective. She was good at learning new tasks and doing what she was told to do. She would manage.

“That’s good,” Cadfael looked around him ‘til he found a strip of re-used vellum and a piece of charcoal to write with. “I shall give you a small dose of the medicine; use no more than half of a little spoon to calm down your babe’s stomach, and only once or twice a day. But I shall give you the recipe, so that Mistress Boneth can brew more of it, should the need arise. She’ll know how to do it, and there is nothing in she won’t get easily: just dill, fennel, chamomile and but a drop of honey, to make it agreeable to the taste.’

He scribbled down the ingredients and gave the note to Rannilt who put it under the lacing of her tunic sleeve. Then he hoisted a large stone bottle from its place on a low bench and rummaged along the shelves ‘til he found a small one of cloudy glass. He poured a small amount of an aromatic liquid into the smaller bottle, then stoppered both bottles again, bedding the wooden stopper in with a wisp of linen, each.

As he was putting things back where they belonged, his look fell upon a tightly-sewn linen sack that had a mark upon it. A mark no-one else would have recognized or been able to read, for it was, in truth, an Arabic letter, marking some supplies brought from the eastern lands. He had completely forgotten about these particular seeds, as they had not been needed for years, but now his eyes were alighted with joy.

“Now this is a lucky coincidence, if there ever was one!” he said with delight. “I’ve kept these for so long I didn’t even remember them anymore. But now we can put them to good use, and none too soon.”

“What are they?” asked Rannilt, while he was carefully cutting one corner of the sack open to pour some of the seed within into a much smaller one.

“These are the seeds of the Greek hay,” explained Cadfael, “called _abesh_ in Africa, _cemen_ among the Turks and _hulba_ in the Saracen lands. They are used as spices for special dishes, but also for various medical purposes. One of those is to help a nursing mother produce more milk, or so the Saracen healers told me. If you soak a spoonful of them overnight in water and eat them just once in the morning, it should double your milk production within the day. Women in the Eastern lands have used them for centuries, although they are still largely unknown in the Western countries, which is probably why I forgot about them.”

“And they won’t be harmful for the babe?” asked Rannilt cautiously.

Cadfael shook his head. “No. I was told it tastes slightly bitter yet would make _you_ smell somewhat sweetly as long as you take it, but that would be all,” he handed her both the small sack and the small bottle. “Take the medicine with you anyway; you will need to calm your son’s stomach first. But don’t give him cow milk, no matter how hungry he is. If you cannot get goat milk until the Greek hay shows its effect, make some oatmeal gruel for him. I shall go over to Mistress Boneth’s house tomorrow to see how you are doing.”

Rannilt whispered her thanks, beginning to hope that she would not lose her child, after all. Cadfael smiled, equally relieved by the unexpected rediscovery of the Greek hay seeds, for he had had doubts himself whether they would be able to save little Liliwin. Now, however, they had a good chance, and that filled him with gratitude. He had not realised until now how much this little family had grown on him, ever since he had first cast an eye on Liliwin the older, fleeing to the Holy Cross church from the angry mob and holding onto the altar cloth for dear life.

“Benet!” he called out into the garden. “Wash your hands, lad, and come in for a moment. I’ve got an errand for you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The youth came in with an eager smile, clearly ready and willing to do his master’s bidding. He could hardly be above twenty and was of middle height but well-shaped and doubtlessly aware of that fact. His face youthfully rounded in the frame of shaggy brown curls, yet shaven clean; and he looked surprisingly elegant, even in the wrinkled cloth hose and well-worn, drab brown cottee that had surely seen other owners before him. His scuffed leather shoes were very down at heel, and the short, caped capuchon thrown back on his wide shoulders was patched here and there. He must have grown out his current clothing and not yet found the means of getting new ones, for the sleeves of the cottee were short on him, and the neck of his coarse linen shirt unlaced, as if it had become too tight for the strong neck emerging from it.

And yet Rannilt had the odd feeling as if their roles had been reversed. She was wearing a garment above her true status, but it seemed that this young man should be wearing finery not even the richest craftsman or merchant in town was entitled to wear. She could not have told, for the life of her, why she would think such a thing, yet she could not shake off the feeling.

“Benet, my lad,” said Cadfael in a fatherly manner, “I want you to see Rannilt here home. She lives in the locksmith’s house, near the castle, and as it’s getting dark, I don’t wish her to go alone. She’s been attacked before, by people who’re still running free, for reasons still largely unknown, and I’ve missed _None_ already. It won’t do well for me if I missed _Vespers_ , too. Will you go for me and see that she gets home safely?”

“Why, certainly,” said the boy with a shrug. “And should someone bother her again, I’ll gladly teach them better manners. Worry not, Brother, she’ll be safe enough with me.”

Cadfael shot him a sharp look. That easy self-confidence told a different tale than the role of the rustic innocent the youth had been taking such pains to play ever since his arrival. It was the voice of a man who, despite his apparent youth, was used to be in charge, to make quick decisions in a matter of a heartbeat and to find his way out of every tight spot. There was definitely a secret, but Cadfael did not think it would be a sinister one. And for some reason he believed that Rannilt would indeed be safe under the young man’s protection.

“All is well, then,” he said, “but see that you come back as soon as you can. It does not behove for Abbey servants who live within to return late.”

Benet promised to hurry back, and then off he went with Rannilt, leaving Cadfael just enough time to arrive to _Vespers_ at the least moment.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“So,” said Benet conversationally as they crossed the English Bridge and were walking up towards the Wyle, “you’re the widow of that poor wretch, the wandering minstrel, who has been attacked and beaten to death near the town gate just a few weeks ago?”

“And how would _you_ know about that?” asked Rannilt sharply. She might be a timid person as a rule, but this youth did not stand above her in any way; he was a servant like she had been, and she would not tolerate him making the death of Liliwin a matter of amusement. “You’ve just come to town with the black priest who makes everyone’s life miserable… when he isn’t driving them to despair.”

Benet seemed taken aback a bit by the ferocity of her answer.

“It was all over the town when we arrived,” he said, a little defensively. “And Father Ailnoth cannot be _that_ bad. My Aunt Diota has been with him for more than three years, and she’s never made any complaints of him, as far as I know… and he brought me with him for my aunt’s sake, for which I’m grateful.”

“Have you been his servant as well?” asked Rannilt doubtfully.

Benet shook his head. “No; and I doubt that someone like me could ever be easy with him. But I minded my tongue around him while we were travelling together and did what he bade me to do, and he was fair enough in his dealings with me.”

“You were but a travelling companion for him,” pointed out Rannilt. “He had no true power over you. Here, he’s managed to become a menace for many in less than a week; one of them already dead. You should count yourself fortunate that he hasn’t chosen to employ you himself.”

“Truth be told, I am,” admitted the young man. “I like it in the Abbey gardens, and Brother Cadfael has promised me to teach me some of his herbal skills. I’d like that.”

Rannilt gave him a doubtful look. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d wish to become a healer or an herbalist.”

“I don’t,” allowed Benet. “But herbal skills are always useful. One can never know when one might run into an injured man; and knowing what’s needful to do in such a case, when no healer is available, can save a man’s life.”

That was a very simple truth, and Rannilt accepted it without further argument.

It was nearly dark when they turned onto the Doggepole, leaving behind them the Wyle, with its narrow lanes and shuts, ready to head towards Saint Mary’s Street, when Benet suddenly stopped. He looked around as if searching for something or someone, his eyes alert and wary.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rannilt, frightened by the change in his manner.

“I’m not sure,” he replied in a low voice, “but I think we’re being followed. You don’t happen to have a knife on you, do you? Or preferably a dagger?”

Rannilt shook her head mutely. She’d never had anything more dangerous than a kitchen knife in her hand. Benet shrugged, as if he had expected it.

“Well, that cannot be helped now,” he looked around in search for something he could use as a weapon and picked up a broken branch, about as thick as his arm. “This will have to do, I suppose. Now, should we be attacked, I want you to run to the next best house, hammer on the gate and make as much noise as you can.”

“Why?” Rannilt was surprised by the instruction. She had always thought that fading into the shadows quietly would be the safest solution.

“Wherever is following us, they want to do what they’re planning in secrecy,” explained Benet. “People coming out of their houses, perchance with torches, would scare them away.”

Rannilt nodded her understanding but had no time to answer, for their attackers were already upon them… three of them altogether. For a moment, she was frozen with shock, memories of the first attack that had cost Liliwin his life weighing down on her too heavily to move. But when she saw that Benet was more than capable of defending himself with the broken branch, she found her courage again.

Slipping through between the brawling men, she ran to the closest house, which happened to belong to Reginald of Aston, the silversmith (a man of considerable substance), and began to hammer on the heavy oakwood gate, shrieking on the top of her lungs for help. And a few heartbeats later she found herself in dire need of help indeed.

One of the attackers turned away from Benet and came after her, wrenching her arms behind her back and easily holding both her wrists together with but one hand. In his other hand, she could see the glint of a blade – a knife, perhaps, or a dagger, exactly what Benet had wished for only moments earlier. In the darkness, she could not see the man’s face, but she recognized the smell and the feel of old, worn leather and knew this must have been one of Liliwin’s murderers. Unless she found a way to get free, she was as good as dead, too.

With a strength only despair could give her small body, she twisted around in the grip of the man and bit down on his upper arm, unprotected by the sleeveless leather jerkin, as hard as she could. Apparently, it had been hard enough, for the man cried out in pain and his hold on her wrists loosened ever so slightly. Rannilt ducked into the other direction, tore herself free and ran headlong into the darkness, without knowing where she should go.

By then, the silversmith’s household had been alarmed by the ungodly noise. Someone threw the oak gate wide open, and Reginald, his grown sons, his journeyman and an apprentice came with burning torches to see what was going on. Seeing the approaching lights, the attackers realised that their cause was lost, at least for the moment, and they ran off before any-one could have recognised them.

One of them, who stank of sour wine, caught up with Rannilt and tossed her to the ground roughly as he was running by, but had no time – or no courage – to do anything worse. With the help of Benet, who seemed unharmed save from a bruised cheek, she got to her feet again, grateful that she had not dropped the medicine given her by Brother Cadfael. Both the glass bottle with the cordial and the small sack with the seeds were hanging safely from her girdle. Other than the fright she had taken, she was largely unharmed, too.

The silversmith sent his apprentice to alarm her protector, and within a short time, John Boneth came running down the street, the daft boy hot on his heels. They must have worked late again, perhaps to finish some important commission before Christmas would stop all the work in town to celebrate the rebirth of hope for mankind properly, for they were both in their drab working garb, their hands and faces smeared with oil and soot.

“Rannilt!” the locksmith cried out and fell to his knees to examine her thoroughly; that way, they were almost eye-to-eye, John being a tall, well-grown man. “Are you hurt, child? What happened to you?”

“I’m unhurt,” Rannilt tried to reassure him, but her voice was shaking. “I’ve taken a fall, but that’s all; none too bad. Benet here, Brother Cadfael’s helper, protected me.”

Only now did John take notice of the slightly dishevelled young man who was talking to the silversmith’s household.

“I thank you for that… Benet, was it?” he said solemnly. “My mother and I have promised Rannilt to take care of her and her child, but I cannot be in two places at the same time. You did us great service today; should you ever need mine, do not hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” answered Benet, again in that light, self-confident manner that would fit a landed lord rather than an Abbey servant. “The sheriff’s people would do well to take the hunt for these villains more seriously, though. An attack near the town gate was bad enough; an ambush _within_ the town walls, however clumsily executed, is a great deal worse.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“He spoke rightly, I must admit that much,” said Will Warden on the next day, coming to Mistress Boneth’s house to take Rannilt’s testimony. “All that trouble with the new priest, and poor Eluned’s death, overshadowed the murder case we were supposed to look into. That must not happen again. It has been going on for too long already.”

“A good thing that Brother Cadfael’s lad kept a calm head and knew how to fend off their attackers,” added Mistress Boneth, shuddering. “Had _I been_ with Rannilt, as I’d intended, I wouldn’t have been of much help.”

“I’ll have to speak with that lad, too,” said Will Warden, “but I wanted to hear out Rannilt first,” he glanced at the pale, frightened young woman. “Have you recognized any of the attackers:”

“’Twas too dark to see their faces,” whispered Rannilt. “But one of them, the one with the knife, was wearing a leather jerkin. And the other one, the one who tossed me to the ground, smelled of sour wine. Of a _lot_ of sour wine.”

“What about the third one?” asked the Sergeant.

Rannilt shrugged uncertainly. “I only saw shapes… vague ones. But he was big… as tall as Master Boneth, and even broader, I think.”

That was all she could tell them, and a short time later she retired to her own room to feed her child. Will Warden looked at John and his mother gravely.

“We do have a few suspects,” he admitted, “but no evidence. I believe I know who those three men might have been, but without any hard proof…” he shrugged. “I’ll have to speak with Brother Cadfael and with that lad of his. Perhaps the boy has seen more.”

“It worries me that they dared to attack Rannilt within the town walls,” said John. “What will come next? My own house? Will I have to sleep with an axe under my bed?”

“They won’t try to break into your house,” replied the Sergeant. “They’re like rats, acting under the mantle of darkness. Cowards. A lad with a broken branch was able to fend them off.”

“Yet they’ve murdered Rannilt’s husband and tried to beat the unborn child out of her body,” reminded him John grimly. “And they’ve been after Rannilt ever since.”

Will Warden nodded. “They thought now that everyone else is concerned with the new priest and their grievances, we’ll forget about what they’d done. Well, they’re wrong.”

“Perhaps they are,” allowed John, “but we’re still not any further than we were at the beginning.”

“No,” said the Sergeant slowly. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Now that we know _whom_ we’re looking for and have some promising hints to follow, we only need to find evidence to prove it.”

“Now, if _that’s_ all,” commented John drily, “I hope you’ll find your evidence in time. Because these people seem hell-bent on silencing witnesses, and that means that from now on that lad Benet is in danger, too.”


	8. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harald, the runaway villein only featured once, in "The Devil's Novice"

**CHAPTER EIGHT – REVELATIONS**

**Author's note:** Harald, the runaway villein only featured once, in The Devil's Novice

As for the Christmas antiphon, I'm not certain that it already existed in this form in the 12th century. But it's one of my favourites and I couldn't resist including it.

Beta read by the gracious stonegnome1, whom I owe my thanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“You believe, then, that Arald lad was one of the attackers?” asked Cadfael.

He was sitting on the bench against the wall in the quiet, dim shelter of his workshop in the garden, with Will Warden, Benet and the man-in-arms named Jehan who's come with the sergeant to question Benet about the ambush in the previous evening. The sergeant nodded grimly.

“There's definitely a trail leading to him,” he said. “Rannilt told you that one of the men attacking them on the road wore a leather jerkin. You learned from the carter that Arald had the opportunity to meet Rannilt and her husband outside the town and learn about their plans to return to Shrewsbury. One of yesterday's attackers also wore a leather jerkin; and as the lad spends most of his evenings in Ailwyn's tavern, it would have been easy for him to plan an ambush right where it took place.

“True enough,” allowed Cadfael, “Though I wonder how they might have learned that Rannilt would be out of the house.”

The sergeant shrugged. “Either they kept an eye on the house, or they just got lucky. Anyone could have got a glimpse of her walking towards the Abbey in your company, Brother, and they would know that you wouldn't be able to escort her back. All they had to do was to wait.”

Cadfael accepted _that_ with a thoughtful nod.  
  
“You speak of _them_ , though,” he then said. “Do you have any thoughts of who the other two might have been?”

“Well, the girl says one smelled of sour wine,” answered Will with a shrug, “and Jehan here was told that Arald often drinks with John Weaver in Ailwyn's tavern. As for the third man, we're still in the dark.”

“The third one was the biggest and strongest of them,” supplied Benet. “He was wearing a hood, so I couldn't see his face, but I had to be awfully fast around him if I didn't want any bones to be crushed. He had some kind of cudgel and great strength. At least half a head taller than I, he was.”

“Will Wharton,” said Jehan with grim certainty. “The farrier's journeyman. It must have been. Ailwyn says he and that Arald are thick as thieves with John Weaver.”

“Perhaps so, but why would a journeyman with a respected craft get involved in such things?” asked Cadfael. “That Arald and John Weaver are unhappy with the turns their fates have taken I can understand, but what would drive someone like Will Wharton to take out his bitterness on hapless victims like Rannilt and Liliwin?”

“I don't know,” admitted the sergeant glumly.

“Perhaps we should ask Master Thomas, the farrier,” suggested Jehan. “If anyone, he'd know.”

The sergeant gave him an approving look.

“That's a good thought, Jehan my lad. You may get that promotion of yours yet.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The messuage of Thomas the farrier stood in the Abbey Foregate on the opposite side of the road from the Abbey itself, next door to and on the eastern side of Niall Bronzesmith's house and workshop, near the horse-fair. The outbuilding that housed the smithy was already loud with the clang of hammers and pleasantly warm, so Will Warden did not truly mind that they had to sit down on a bench and wait 'til the farrier finished the horseshoe on which he was working.

It did not take long, and the master farrier dropped his hammer, dipping the newly-finished horseshoe into a bucket of water with the help of a pair of tongs, to cool it down, and placed it on a slab of stone. Then he wiped the soot from his hands and came forth to talk to the men of law.

Master Thomas, like the Abbot's cook, Brother Petrus, to whom he was allegedly related (although no-one could confirm the exact grade of said relation), had come from near the Scottish border to live in Shrewsbury, some thirty or so years earlier. Like Brother Petrus, he was black-haired and dark-eyed and possessed a rather volatile temper, a generous heart, and took great pride in his work. He rented the premises of his business from the Abbey and had been, three years previously, one of the witnesses for the charter granting Judith Perle (née Vestier)'s house the same one in which Niall Bronzesmith now had his workshop to the Abbey for the annual rent of one white rose.

He was a much-respected craftsman and the head of the Farrier's Guild and, despite his fiery temper, a very observant man, Will Warden found, as he explained him what they were about.

“No, Will hasn't come to work today,” he said when the sergeant was finished. “In truth, he has been fairly unreliable in the last couple of weeks, ever since I've taken in Harald here,” he nodded in the direction of a large, big-boned young man, likely still this side of thirty, who was working diligently at the second anvil.

The sergeant gave the younger man a good, hard look. Blue-eyed, with a shock of pale hair, the young farrier seemed familiar to him, he just could not remember from where. Strange, though, as there were not many Saxons living within the town walls.

“You must know him,” supplied Master Thomas. “Your own men caught him in the Long Forest barely more than a year ago; a poor, starving outlaw, living wild, having run away after a failed attempt to murder his lord's steward who'd taken his sister against her will. He's from some way south; from Gretton.”

Now Will Warden did remember indeed. Even though the sight of the big, lusty lad working with obvious delight was hard to reconcile with the hollow-cheeked, half-starved runaway villein his men had dragged in from the Long Forest for thievery. Thin he had been as a fence-pole, with his rags barely covering his jutting bones. He had become quite the imposing figure, now that he had regained his weight and strength.

“Had he not found employment with a farrier on the town side of the Western Bridge, though?” he asked.

Master Thomas nodded. “He had. But he wasn't used well by his master, so after he'd become a free man, having worked a year and a day in the borough, he sought a different employment.”

“And you took him in,” said Will Warden. It was not a question.

“Aye, that I did, less than a fortnight ago,” replied Master Thomas. “He's a very skilled craftsman; and a hard worker, unlike Will, who, while he has the skills is, frankly, a bit lazy. I have half my mind at marrying my daughter to him and leaving the business to him in due time.”

“I suppose that did not make your journeyman happy,” commented Jehan. “He, too, might have had his eye both on your daughter and your business.”

Master Thomas shook his head. “Nay, I'd never have given him either. Will is a good craftsman, but too fond of wine and dice. I haven't worked so hard all my life to see my business ruined by a drunkard.”

“That's odd,” said Will Warden with a frown. “I knew your journeyman used to favour _Wat's Tavern_ , but he never was thought to be a heavy drinker.”

“Not before he'd befriend this Arald, the carter's helper,” answered Master Thomas sourly. “Since then, though, he's always off drinking with him, and with John Weaver; and that Gunnar, who serves old William Hynde.”

The sergeant and Jehan exchanged looks of understanding.

“That explains a lot,” said Jehan slowly. “Including why he'd change preferences and go from _Wat's Tavern_ over to Ailwyn's.”

The sergeant nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you should go there and ask a few questions,” he said. “Regular customers may know where to look for him or for Arald.”

The younger farrier, having heard every word, despite the noise he was making with his hammer, stopped working for a moment and looked at them.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but if he's running from the law, he won't show his face in his favoured tavern, of all places,” he said; then, with a wry smile and all the painful experience of one who had been on the run himself for months once, he added. “I know _I wouldn't_.”

Will Warden nodded, acknowledging the point.

“So, where'd _you_ look for him?” he asked.

Harald shrugged. “The Abbey's hayloft at the horse-fair is a favoured hiding place for the homeless,” he replied simply. “I've slept there myself a few times. No-one would ever look for a fugitive this close to the town.”

The sergeant recognized the hard-earned wisdom of the young man's words. If anyone, Harald would know a fugitive's mindset best.

“What do you say, Jehan?” he looked at his man. “Should we pay the hayloft a visit?”

'Tis worth a try,” said Jehan in agreement. “It won't hurt to ask for someone from the Abbey to come with us, though. The presence of a monk won't seem out of order. _Ours_ would.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Will Warden found himself in agreement, and thus they returned to the Abbey and asked for Brother Cadfael to accompany them, as he was due to visit his regular patients in the Foregate anyway. Abbot Radulfus had no objections, and Cadfael, after having given Benet his instructions for the day, went with them readily.

The wide triangle of the horse-fair gleamed faintly pallid with light frost. Round the eastern corner of the enclave wall, at the far end of the fairground and halfway to Saint Giles, loomed the large Abbey barn, with its stable and the hayloft above. On that stretch of the road, a cart stood, abandoned and empty, the team of horses that had supposedly pulled it gone.

“This is one of Richart Nyall's carts,” said Jehan, his eyes widening in recognition. “Arald and whoever is fleeing with him must have taken the horses!”

“We cannot know that; not yet,” replied Will Warden fairly. “Not before we've taken a closer look at the barn itself.”

Nonetheless he sent out one of the men to the ferry to see whether their fugitives might have tried to escape across the ford to Preston. Or possibly Longner. Another man he sent back to the garrison with the order that a mounted patrol should ride down all the way to Atcham and look for their suspects.

Cadfael, Jehan, and he continued their way to the barn, where, according to Harald, Will Wharton and the former groom of Stanton Cobbold might have taken refuge, hiding in the hay of the loft, to evade the men of law.

“Do you have the keys on you, Brother?” asked the sergeant.

Cadfael nodded and opened the main doors, setting a leaf wide to provide the sergeant and his armed men entrance. In the straw-scented dimness within the large lower room, there were stalls for horses, though none of them was occupied at the moment.

“This is where the country breeders leave their beasts during the seasonal stock sales,” explained Cadfael to the law-men, keeping his voice carefully low, just in case someone was still hiding within. “Of course, in other times when there's no such sale, the place is little used.”

“How can we get to the hayloft, though?” asked Will Warden.

Cadfael gestured towards the middle of the long room, where a wooden ladder led up through a trap door to the loft above. “Up that ladder there.”

Jehan, being the youngest of them, climbed the ladder nimbly, thrust up the trap door and slid it aside, to step into an upper room lit by a set of narrow, unshuttered windows. A few casks ranked there along the back wall, an array of tools stood in a near corner, and ample stores of hay was stocked there, for there had been good grass crops several years running. Other than that, the room was empty and quiet.

“They left their imprint in the hay all right,” Jehan called down to his sergeant, “but they aren't here any-more. I suppose they've been gone for a while.”

Will Warden and Cadfael followed him up to the loft to see it for themselves and they agreed.

“No question but two people had been here recently,” said Cadfael, pointing at the two snug, hollowed nests that were clear to be seen.

“Two they were,” agreed Will Warden, “and they must have left in a great hurry. See how this pile of hay has been turned over and all but ripped apart? Were they possibly searching for something? Something they'd hidden here before?”

“There's but one way to find out,” said Cadfael, and grabbing a hay fork, he began to turn the disturbed hay over meticulously, to reveal anything that might be hidden beneath it. Jehan, without waiting for instructions, did the same.

Cadfael was the first to find something. Soon his fork hit something hard, and as he pushed the hay aside, he caught a glimpse of a familiar sight: wooden rings and balls, originally painted in vivid colours that had been somewhat muted by the long use, peeking out of a threadbare linen sack.

“You know these things, Brother?” asked the sergeant, seeing how the monk's face was saddening all of a sudden.

Cadfael nodded. “These are Liliwin's utensils; the ones he used to do his tricks. There cannot be any doubt: we are on the trail of his murderers.”

“We shall take them with us,” decided the sergeant. “This is the evidence we've been looking for: The murdered man's possessions, the carter's stolen horses. What else would we need?”

“Rannilt would want these things back,” said Cadfael. “They were everything Liliwin could ever named his own; these and his rebec.”

“She can have them, once the murderers are caught and the lord sheriff has sighted the evidence,” answered Will Warden. “We ought to search for that rebec, though. After all it might still be here somewhere.”

“Sergeant,” the strained voice of Jehan interrupted them.

“Have you found it?” asked Will.

“I've found something all right,” answered Jehan, looking like someone who might get sick in any moment, “but it isn't a rebec.”

Monk and sergeant hurried over to the other end of the hayloft and stared down in mutual horror into the long, pallid, dirty face of John Weaver, whose open, lifeless eyes stared back at them with the cold indifference of the dead.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“His skull is broken,” said Cadfael, rolling the dead man onto his front and ran his fingers through the lank brown hair that had grown below the jawline, as John Weaver clearly had not had the coin to spare for a proper haircut for quite some time.

He ran his fingers from the nape to the rounding at the back of the head, feeling for injuries. He found but one wound, a deep, large crater with curiously smooth edges. It seemed as if a single blow would have felled the man, delivered with great strength or with unstoppable wrath.

“What could have caused such damage?” asked Will Warden. “A staff perchance, with a heavy, rounded handle, or a hammer?”

The latter was a logical assumption, one of the suspects being the farrier's journeyman, but Cadfael shook his head.

“No; for that, the wound is too large,” he answered. “Had it been made by a hammer, and one wielded by a smith, well-used to its handling, the wound would be smaller and more precise. No, I believe this was caused by a cudgel. Has Benet not told us that the biggest and strongest of the attackers had used a cudgel?”

The sergeant nodded. “That would still mean that Will Wharton killed this poor wretch; the carter's lad doesn't have the strength to kill someone with a single blow. But why would any of them want to murder their own fellow-in-crime?”

'Tis all about silencing witnesses,” said Cadfael grimly. “A hopeless drunkard like John Weaver is a dangerous ally; an unreliable one. Perhaps he panicked; or his conscience would not let him rest. He could also have babbled when having too much wine – who knows? In any case, he'd become too much of a risk for the other two.”

“And they murdered him in cold blood?” Jehan had seen violent death before, more than once, but _that_ thought made him green in the face nonetheless. Cadfael shrugged dejectedly.

“You'll learn, son, that once a man has taken a life, taking a second one doesn't seem quite so hard. Less so if it serves to cover the first crime.”

“That is, sadly, true,” agreed Will Warden. “The case seems clear enough, then; can we move this poor wretch to the castle now?”

“Have him brought to the Abbey,” said Cadfael. “'Tis closer; and he has no living kin to prepare him for his last journey anyway. We shall do him the service. Besides, it will be easier for Rannilt to come to us and see whether she recognizes him.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Will Warden sent two of his men to fetch a litter from the Abbey, and by the time _None_ was over, John Weaver's body lay on its bier in the mortuary chapel, limbs straightened, body composed, eyes closed, with a linen cloth draped over his face. The older monks still sturdy enough to leave the Infirmary came and took turns to pray for his soul, as he had died unshriven, and thus ease his way into the afterlife.

The rumours about his demise spread across the town like wildfire. One by one, onlookers started to file into the church, pretending to have come for _Vespers_ , to see whether the news was true. Even Mistress Emma took the time to pay her unlucky worker a last visit, escorted properly by Warin, her elderly clerk, looking shaken. This was not the first time that someone she knew well would die unexpectedly and by violence.

The dead man's usual drinking companions showed their faces, too: Bertred, the Vestier's foreman, Gunnar, old William Hynde's servant, Conan, the shepherd who tended to the flocks of Girard of Lythwood, the wool-merchant, and others. The spinstresses and weavers who had once worked for him and were now working for Mistress Emma came, too, to say their farewells.

The one who should have been there first, though, as he was said to spend the most time with the victim in the tavern, was curiously absent. Cadfael could no-where see Eddi Rede in the crowd.

“Perhaps he's afraid he might reveal his own involvement somehow,” commented Will Warden, “or he's simply shocked by the way things have spun out of control. I hope John Boneth's girl will recognize the victim, one way or another. When is she due to come?”

“As soon as John has the time to bring him,” replied Cadfael. “I doubt he'd allow her to come on her own or with anyone else who might not be able to protect her.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And indeed, even though it had since become common knowledge that Will Wharton and Arald had fled the town on the carter's horses and were now being pursued by the law, John Boneth was not taking any chances. He brought Rannilt to the Holy Cross personally, right after Vespers, to take a look at the dead man. And Rannilt dutifully came and looked; and when Cadfael lifted the cloth from John Weaver's face, she paled a little, then nodded.

“That's him,” she said simply. “One of those who attacked us on the road. The same one I saw here, in this very church, on the day of Liliwin's funeral.”

“And perchance the same one who tossed you to the ground yesterday,” added John Boneth. “He's the most likely to have smelled of sour wine; he was always full of it. A shame, truly, for him to end like this. He used to be a good, decent man once.”

“I still cannot fathom why he or indeed either of them would want to hurt us,” whispered Rannilt, shocked not so much by the sight of a dead man but by finally facing one of her husband's murderers, even if in death. “We never harmed them. We didn't even know them; any of them.”

“Some people don't _need_ a reason, child,” answered John Boneth with a sigh. “I'm fairly sure he wasn't evil at heart; but he was a deeply unhappy man, and with too much wine or ale in him, he might have acted out of pure unhappiness, without even thinking of what he was doing. Perchance he hurt so much that he needed to hurt others, for he thought that would make him feel better.”

“How could hurting someone else make you feel better?” asked Rannilt with a frown.

“I don't know,” said John. “It wouldn't make _me_ feel better at all, but some people never learn that.”

“He took my Liliwin from me and nearly my child as well, just so that he could feel better?” asked Rannilt incredulously. “What kind of man is _that_?”

“Someone whose heart has been twisted beyond help,” Cadfael interfered. “Think not too much about that, child; it will only make you bitter, too.”

“I fear I cannot become any more bitter than I already am,” answered Rannilt quietly. “That people could do such a thing, ordinary people, among whom I spent most of my life is too horrible to fathom.”

'Tis never easy to fathom what may twist a man out of his decent mind so much,” allowed Cadfael; in truth, even after all the malice and violence he had seen in and outside the cloister, he still could not understand it. “Be careful, though, for giving in to your bitterness might twist _your_ heart, too; and surely you don't want to poison the heart of your little son with it.”

Rannilt shook her head mutely. No, she did not want her son to grow up with bitter hatred in his heart. Liliwin would not want it. He would want their child to be merry and content and safe. Now that he was gone, it was up to her to see that happen.

She had not even realised when her tears started flowing, unstoppably. Within moments, she was sobbing her heart out, held safely in John Boneth's arms, who was quite startled by her sudden breakdown.

“Let her cry,” said Cadfael quietly. “She needs it. 'Til now, she hasn't allowed herself to grieve. There was too much else to worry about: giving birth, the funeral, finding a nurse, Eluned's death, the attack, the constant fear for herself and her babe. But grieve she must, for the healing to begin. Take her home and leave her to the devices of your mother; she'll know what to do with her. We've learned from her everything she could tell us.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The general excitement about the second murder in such a short time was dampened on the next day by the preparations for the long night vigil and the proper celebration of Nativity. John Weaver, shrouded and prepared for his burial, as soon as the soil thawed enough to be broken after the holy days, waited all but forgotten in the mortuary chapel, where no further harm could happen to him.

Cadfael, returning from a brief visit to the town, where he had spent a short hour in the delightful company of Aline Beringar and his two-year-old godson Giles, briefly contemplated the irony that the man was going to lie in the same cemetery as Liliwin, in whose death he had played a significant role.

_In the end, though, we are all equals before our Lord_ , he thought philosophically, lengthening his stride to get to the choir in time for _Compline_. This was going to be a very long night spent in the church, with only short breaks to rest in-between.

Matins began at the midnight hour, celebrating the birth of God made flesh, begotten by the Holy Spirit, born by a virgin miraculously. The monks were standing in their stalls in the choir, faintly lit by the golden sheen of candles and the red glow of the altar lamps, highly strung with the tension of worshipping, music and wonder.

Rannilt, who had entered the church through the parish door, together with Mistress Boneth, John and the Foregate laity, could see Brother Cadfael from where she was standing in the nave, and her heart warmed a little. Soon, she spotted Benet, too, leaning against a nearby stone pillar, his youthful face unusually solemn in his worship. Whatever else he might be, he was clearly a devout believer.

The lighting in the nave was dim; the chanting of the monks came out there muted and mild. Rannilt shifted and stirred, kneeled and rose again with the nameless, faceless crowd around her, felt the solid presence of John Boneth close by, and for the first time since her return to Shrewsbury, she felt safe. One of the murderers was dead, two others were on the run, and she felt the knot in her stomach gradually loosening. True, there was still one more man within the town walls who could be dangerous for her, but right now, she had faith that God would not allow any more harm to come to her or to the child; _Liliwin_ 's child.

The voice of Brother Anselm soared towards the arched ceiling in a joyous melody, expanding to fill the vault and warming even the cold stone with its radiance.

__

Puer natus in Bethlehem, alleluia,  
unde gaudet Jerusalem, alleluia, alleluia…

And the choir of the monks answered in soft, matched voices that sounded like a legion of angels singing.

__

In cordis jubilo, Christum natum adoremus  
cum novo cantico.

The voice of Brother Anselm, high and sweet as a lark’s, continued with the next verse.

__

Hic jacet in praesepio, alleluia,  
qui regnat sine termino, alleluia alleluia... 

And the monks answered again, the melody forking into two harmonious voices, the upper and the lower one, which still sounded as if it had been but one voice,

__

In cordis jubilo, Christum natum adoremus  
cum novo cantico.

Rannilt shut out everything but the soft beauty of those heavenly voices. Whatever might come tomorrow, for this one night she felt completely in peace.


	9. Black Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have given but a short resume of the canon events concerning Father Ailnoth here. I saw no need to retell canon events in their entirety, as they have no true significance for my main plotline.

**CHAPTER NINE – BLACK CHRISTMAS**

The peace of the Holy Night did not last long, unfortunately. Right after _Prime_ and the dawn Mass, Dame Diota Hammet, the housekeeper of Father Ailnoth, came hurrying in through the wicket in the gate. The first true frost of that winter had set in on the previous night, covering every outline of wall or bush or branch with a glittering whiteness, and so she stumbled and slipped on the glazed cobbles as she made it for Prior Robert – who was emerging from the cloisters at the very moment – checking her dark cloak above her in obvious agitation. She must already have taken a heavy fall on some slippery stone, for her face was badly bruised and both her palms grazed and scratched.

Cadfael, coming from the lavatory and in sore need of some movement after a long night of standing still, singing and worshipping, could not help but overhear their conversation. It seemed that Father Ailnoth had left his house on the previous evening, shortly before _Compline_ , and not been seen by any-one ever since. Cadfael did remember having seen the priest right before returning from the town, not fifty paces from the gatehouse, going towards the bridge in a great hurry.

He said so, and Prior Robert became worried that Father Ailnoth might have fallen somewhere and injured himself, as the frost had already been setting in, and had perchance been lying helpless ever since. By such weather, he would have frozen to death already, so finding him as soon as possible was of great urgency. The prior ordered Cadfael to tend to Mistress Hammet’s injuries; then he called all the brothers and lay brothers together and set in hand a hunt for Father Ailnoth.  
  
Benet, always eager and willing to help and loath to sit around idly, wanted to go with hem, but Cadfael would have none of that. He sent the boy to take care of her shaken and injured aunt; then, as he had been the last one to see the priest, at least from the Abbey, he went off to the place where they had met in the previous evening to see the hunt started.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They found Father Ailnoth in the millpond later in that morning, dead. Drowned, certainly; but when the body had been pulled out of the pond and taken to the mortuary chapel, Cadfael found a large, broken wound on the back of his head, proving that he had suffered a heavy blow before he would fall into the water.

A lacerated wound it was, low in the curve of the neck, as if he had been struck with something rough and jagged – like a broken branch. Not a strong enough blow to kill him, but heavy enough to daze him, after which he might have fallen into the water – or been pushed in.

“Could it have been the same person who’d killed the other victim?” asked young Alan Herbard, Hugh’s deputy in his absence. He had come down hot-foot from the castle to investigate, with Will Warden and two other officers in trail.

“No,” replied Will Warden simply. “There’s little doubt that John Weaver has been killed by the farrier’s journeyman; in cold blood or in affect, we still cannot tell. We do know for certain, though, that Wharton crossed the river at the ford yesterday. My men spoke to the ferryman who’ll bear witness. He _might_ have come back on some other way, of course, but I find that unlikely. He was eager to get away from the town with the best speed the carter’s horse could manage.”

“What about Arald, the groom?” asked Alan Herbard.

The sergeant shrugged. “It seems that he’d fled eastwards, towards Atcham. Two officers are in hot pursuit; unless he’s managed to steal a better horse, they’ll catch up with him within a day or two.”

“There’s still the fourth member from the original attack on the road,” supplied Jehan. “The one we still don’t know.”

“True,” agreed the sergeant. “I don’t believe there would be any connection between the two cases, though.”

“You have a suspicion?” asked Alan with a frown; unlike Will, he was not too well acquainted with the Foregate and its people, or he would have come to it on his own.

“Wherever I look, I see naught but suspects,” answered the sergeant drily. “Father Ailnoth made a thorough job of turning every soul in the parish against him, and that in so short a time! A poor end, anyway, for any man.”

“We should not concentrate on the parish people alone, though,” said Alan. “What about this young man, the nephew of his housekeeper, whom he took with him to Shrewsbury? Could he not have held some old grudge against the priest?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Cadfael, shaking his head. “They never met before coming here, he ells me, and I see no reason to doubt his words. Besides, I saw him in the church well before _Matins_ , and though there’s no certainty about _when_ Father Ailnoth went into the pond, it was probably after that time. I also believe that when Benet took such dire offence as to up and hit a man, he’d do so face to face; never from behind.”

“That’s what you _think_ ,” said Will Warden shrewdly. “Yet you have no proof, none other than having seen him in the church.”

“No, I haven’t,” admitted Cadfael, “And you have every right to question him. He won’t go anywhere, not with his aunt bereft of an employer and all alone in the world.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Alan Herbard doubtfully. “Three deaths in less than a month; was there ever such a black Christmas in this town? I hope Lord Beringar returns shortly, for I feel seriously out of my depth.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As if he had known that his presence was needed, Hugh indeed returned to Shrewsbury late in the evening of the twenty-seventh, after what seemed to have been quite the haste. Alan Herbard was relieved beyond measure to lay such a delicate case as the possible murder of a priest, however hated, into the sheriff’s hands. With common crimes the young man could deal well enough already, but a dead priest, presumably murdered, was too much for his limited experience.

To tell the truth, Will Warden was no less relieved. He preferred doing the footwork and leaving it to the lord sheriff to deal with the clergy and other exalted persons of his own rank. More so as Hugh had indeed been confirmed in the office by the King and could now act with the full authority said office provided him with. Thus the further investigation of Liliwin’s (and now also John Weaver’s) murderers was laid firmly in Will’s hands, while Hugh would see into the dead priest’s case, which was just fine with all parties involved.

On the afternoon of the twenty-eighth, the two officers sent after Arald, the former groom of Stanton Cobbold, returned from Atcham, bringing with them not the fugitive but one of the carter’s stolen horses.

“We’ve come late,” reported the younger one, Alcher, known as the best marksman in the garrison of Shrewsbury. “He was dead already when we arrived. Apparently, he tried to steal a horse from a small manor on his way and got in a fight with the steward of the manor. He pulled a knife; the other man grabbed an axe… Arald lost.”

“And so did we, if we cannot make sure whether he was one of the attackers or not,” said Will Warden sourly.

“I’ve arranged for the body to be brought to Shrewsbury, but it can take a day or two,” replied Alcher. “I’ve examined him first, though, and Guy here can bear witness that he was wearing a sleeveless leather jerkin and had a mark on his upper arm, like that of a bite… the minstrel's little wife _did_ bite him, did she not?”

“That she did; and as soon as the body arrives, we can have Brother Cadfael compare the bite mark with her teeth,” said the sergeant. “He would know how to do it. What about the knife?”

“That I brought with me,” Alcher produced the blade in question.

It was a dagger, rather than a knife; a plain yet well-made weapon that grooms of landed lords were allowed to carry, in order to protect their master’s property. Arald must have kept it after the death of his former lord, Ivo Corbiere.

“Well, this is as good as we could hope for,” said Will Warden thoughtfully. “Two of the murderers are dead and no longer our concern. The third one fled across the river and cannot cause any mischief at the moment. If only we could reveal who the fourth one was, we could set the whole case to rest.”

“Perhaps someone did see them in Ailwyn’s tavern right before the second attack, after all,” suggested Alcher. “If there was a fourth man with them, that might be their last fellow-in-crime.”

“Not necessarily,” the sergeant shook his head,” but it’s worth a try.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And thus on the same evening Jehan paid Ailwyn’s tavern in the Three-Tree-Shut another visit. This time, however, the potman seemed less eager to discuss his customers with him.

“Last time you came and asked questions, I lost three regular customers a mere few days later,” he said unhappily. “You and the other officers don’t visit my place nearly often enough to make up for my losses.”

“Well, you either talk to me or to the lord sheriff, in the castle,” replied Jehan with a shrug. “I’m sorry if I harmed your business, but those men were murderers – do you truly want such people fill your tavern?”

“They did nothing wrong _here_ ,” pointed out Ailwyn. “And they left good coin on my counter, each day… which I cannot say about _you_ , can I? Twice a week you come for a tankard of ale, at best.”

“I tell you something,” said Jehan. “I’m promised a promotion if we solve this case to the lord sheriff’s satisfaction. When I get it, I’ll celebrate it here, with all my peers. Would that help you over your losses?”

“Well, it would be a start,” allowed the potman, clearly mollified. He didn’t want Will Warden to show up here and frighten away the rest of his regulars, too; or being ordered into the castle to give testimony to the lord sheriff himself. “What do you want to know?”

“Just whether John Weaver, Arald and Will Wharton were here on the evening of the twenty-third,” said Jehan. “And if they were, with whom did they drink?”

“They were here all right,” said the potman, “but I cannot tell you with whom. There were plenty of people here on that day to get their skinful ere the holy days would set in; I had my hands full with keeping them in ale and wine.”

“Any of those they usually drank with?” asked Jehan.

The potman nodded. “Several of them, in truth. Gunnar, old William Hynde’s man, for one. The Lythwood’s shepherd, that Conan… and, of course, Eddi Rede. He’s become a fairly regular patron during the last year. Ever since he’d had another fallout with his father.”

“Another fallout?” echoed Jehan in surprise. “When did _that_ happen? I thought they reconciled after Master Rede had been attacked and robbed while collecting the Abbey rents last year.”

The potman shrugged. “If they did, it didn’t last long.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“I fear that’s true,” said Brother Ambrose ruefully.

He’d been clerk to Brother Matthew, the cellarer, for more than five years, and as such, he had worked with Master William Rede, the chief steward of Brother Matthew, for just about that long. The two were even good friends, as far as it was possible at all with Master William’s disposition.

“How did _that_ happen?” asked Cadfael. “It seemed that they had come to a new closeness last year. Eddi _did_ behave most commendably, after all, and everyone thought his father had forgiven him. He even paid his debts again, after having sworn not to do so, didn’t he?”

Brother Ambrose shrugged and accepted some lozenges for his sore throat, which had been his original reason to come to Cadfael’s workshop.

“That’s true enough,” he admitted. “But after a short time of self-restriction, they fell back to the old routine again. You know Master William, Cadfael; he’s as honest as the day is long, but he’s also a querulous, argumentative man. If you said _white_ to him, he’d say _black_ on principle, and would show you written documents to back up his contention. He started teaching his son the tricks of becoming a good clerk, in the hope that Eddi would take over from him one day, but it didn’t work well.”

“I can imagine it wouldn’t,” said Cadfael, stirring the soothing syrup bubbling over the brazier’s fire. “William is not the most patient man; and neither is that rogue son of his.”

“No, they aren’t, either of them,” agreed Brother Ambrose. “And thus Eddi lost patience and ceased learning from his father, who’s now back to complaining about him being nought but a brawler and a gamester, and how he’d no longer buy the lad out of trouble and would truly let him sweat it out in gaol. A pity, though, as they truly do love each other, in the heart of their hearts. They’re just both too stubborn for their own good… and poor Mistress Rede in the middle between those two fighting cocks.”

_A pity indeed_ , thought Cadfael, looking after the retreating back of Brother Anselm, who was hurrying back to his own work. _More so as this fallout might have turned Eddi onto a path that would perchance lead to a fate worse than anything his father could imagine._

For while the gaol might be bad enough, the gallows were infinitely worse. And that was waving him for being involved in manslaughter and murder. _If_ he was, in truth, involved at all. They still did not have any hard proof for _that_ – not even a strong enough suspicion that would allow Hugh’s men to search the house of Master Rede.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
On the next day, new excitement overshadowed even the mysterious death of Father Ailnoth. Ralph Griffard, lord of two or three country manors and a townhouse in Shrewsbury, came to the Abbey, accompanied by Hugh Beringar, with Will Warden and a couple of younger officers in arms following. They were asking for Prior Robert, to reveal him that which Cadfael had already known: that the boy Benet, labouring for him in the garden, was, in truth, FitzAlan’s squire and his spy in King Stephen’s territory.

Once FitzAlan’s vassal himself, Ralph Griffard had already suffered the loss of one manor for his loyalty to the Empress’ fraction, and it had taken him a great deal of cautious treading and quiet submission to preserve his own status and leave his remaining estate to his son. ‘Twas small wonder therefore, that when Benet – or Ninian Bachiler, to mention him by his true name – had turned to him for help, namely for a horse and some supplies, so that he would be able to flee across the Welsh border and make his way down to join the Empress’ army at Gloucester, Griffard found it safer to turn him in.

What was more, he also revealed to Hugh and the prior that he had told all about Ninian’s deception to Father Ailnoth, who had brought the young man in good faith to Shrewsbury himself, believing him to be the only living kin of his own housekeeper. On the even of Nativity, Lord Griffard had apparently come down to the priest’s house and told him how he had been cheated by one whom he had helped out of goodness.

Therefore it seemed more than likely that Father Ailnoth had stormed off the Abbey grounds in the very hour Cadfael had met him at the gatehouse to confront the young man, who had been hoping for a secret meeting with Lord Griffard. A meeting Griffard had never intended to go to in the first place.

And knowing Father Ailnoth’s disposition, _that_ encounter could have easily ended in a vicious fight, after which Benet – well, _Ninian_ – had returned to the church, unharmed, and the priest ended up in the millpond with a broken head. Thus Hugh ordered Will Warden to bring down more men from the castle, and they searched the Abbey gardens, the stables, the barns, the grange court, the storehouses, the mill… every place where a lone fugitive could have been hiding.

So far, they had found nothing. But Hugh had a watch put on the bridge and the highway. It seemed all too obvious that sooner or later, the boy would be captured.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John Boneth had finished his work for the day and sent the daft boy Griffin to have a bath while he was putting away his tools. He was almost done when a discreet knock on the door interrupted him. He went to answer it – and found himself face to face with the most wanted man in Shrewsbury: Brother Cadfael’s labourer, Benet, who was supposedly an enemy spy. Perchance even a murderer.

“Master Boneth,” said the boy, “you promised me that I could call on you when I’m in need of help. Well, I _am_ now. Does your offer still stand?”

“It depends,” replied John slowly. “Have you murdered the priest?”

“No,” answered the boy simply. “I hadn’t even known he was dead until Brother Cadfael told me a day later.”

John opened the door a little wider. “Then my offer still stands. Come in and tell me what you need from me.”

“Not much,” said Ninian, entering the relative warmth of the workshop gratefully. “Just a roof above my head for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll be taken to a safe place, where I can lie low ‘til the hunt for me dies down a bit. But I won’t be able to get out of town tonight, with all the sheriff’s men on my trail.”

“And it would be different tomorrow?” asked John doubtfully.

The boy nodded. ”Oh, yes. Believe it or not, my lord FitzAlan still has followers in this town who’re faithful to him. Why, even…”

“I don't want to know,” interrupted John. “Frankly, I don’t even care who wears the crown. King or Empress, ‘tis all the same to me. You young lordlings mayhap see things differently…., but we of the simple folk just wish this whole ungodly war to end, one way or another. For four years it has gone on already, and to what end? All it’s brought us was the wasteful loss of lives and the destruction of the country. So no, I won’t side with either party – I just want peace to be reinstated. But I’ve promised you my help, and I’ll stand to my word, for we are in your debt.”

Ninian seemed a little taken aback by those words, delivered with an eloquence unusual from a mere craftsman, but to his credit, he accepted them without any further argument. John showed him the little chamber with the bed of the late Master Peche – the same one in which Liliwin had lain and died – and instructed the daft boy what to do to see their uninvited guest safely to the place where Ninian was supposed to meet his helpers shortly before daybreak.

Griffin nodded obediently. He was used to do as he was asked by his master and content with it.

“And remember,” warned John,” if anyone asks you, you haven’t seen him since the evening when Rannilt was attacked. No-one may know that he’d ever set foot in this house, or we’ll all end up in the gaols… or worse.”

Griffin nodded again. If Master John saw it needful to hide Benet (he couldn’t quite wrap his slow mind around the other name yet), they would help him. If Master John did not want anyone to know about it, no-one would learn a thing from Griffin. It was his job to help Master John, in whatever matter necessary, and he _would_ help his master, without asking any questions. It was that simple.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Reassured that Griffin had everything under control, John Boneth returned to his mother’s house to have his own bath and then supper with the rest of the family. Which now unofficially included Rannilt and the babe she was nursing when he entered the house. The seeds of _Greek hay_ she had been given by Brother Cadfael on the evening of the second attack had worked their wonders; she could feed her son properly again.

Next to her, there were some strange items on the bench, items that John had never seen before: rings and small balls of wood, once painted in vivid colours but now muted by long use.

“These are Liliwin’s things that were found in the Abbey hayloft, where the murderers were hiding,” said Rannilt quietly. “Will Warden has brought them earlier in the afternoon. The lord sheriff has no longer use for them, and he thought I‘d want to keep them as toys for my son. They are his father’s only inheritance, after all. I was grateful.”

“There’s still his rebec, though,” said John.

Rannilt nodded. “I hope they’ll find that, too. Liliwin loved that rebec more than anything else; and if our son shows any gift in music, I’d wish him to have it.”

John could certainly understand that. The rebec had been Liliwin’s only possession that had at least _some_ worth for anyone else than its owners. The rest of his things could only serve as toys for the child. For he could not imagine Rannilt wanting her son to become a wandering juggler like his father had been.

He said so, and Rannilt nodded in agreement.

“I hope he _has_ inherited his father’s gift in music,” she said, “but I wish him to be a safe, safer than Liliwin has ever been. Mayhap God will call him to a cloistered life; the brothers need such with a gift in their throats, too.”

“You’d give him to the cloister as a child oblate?” asked John a little shocked.

Rannilt shook her head. “No, never; I wouldn’t rob him of his free choice. But I hope that when he’s old enough, the brothers will accept him as a pupil, to learn his numbers and letters and become a good clerk in due time. And should he take to cloistered life, I won’t stand in his way.”

“You could also apprentice him to a craftsman,” reminded her John. “I’d readily accept him should he show any interest.”

“I thank you for that,” she said, “but if he’ll come after his father, he won’t be strong enough for your craft, I fear. Even though it would comfort me to see him grow up under your guiding hand, Master John.”

“You might wish to allow that poor child to grow beyond his first year ere you would plan out his entire future,” intervened Mistress Boneth in fond exasperation. “Now, John, your bath is waiting, and supper is all but ready. You should hurry up or they’ll both grow cold. You’re already late as it is.”

John admitted that his mother was right on both accounts and went to have his bath. Upon his return, he found the trestle table already set up in the solar and Rannilt lying out the plates and eating knives. Mistress Boneth had gone to the kitchen to give supper the final touches. As they had counted a well-to-do household since John had become the Master Locksmith of the town, aside from bread and cheese they usually had a small stew for supper, too, and the widow took great pride of serving it at the best temperature and consistence.

“Is it true?” asked Rannilt quietly, while John took his usual place at the table. “Are they hunting Benet for murdering the black priest of the Holy Cross?”

“How would _you_ know about that?” asked John in surprise. Rannilt shrugged.

“Will Warden told us when he brought back Liliwin’s tools. He also said that Benet might turn to us for help… to _you_ ,” she gave John a thoughtful look. “He did come to you, didn’t he? That’s why you were late. You’re _never_ late, unless someone holds you back.”

John nodded. “He says he did not raise his hand against the priest, though; and I find that I believe him.”

“So do I,” said Rannilt, “even though he _has_ lied to us about who he truly is; for he _is_ one of Lord FitzAlan’s squires, isn’t he?”

“That’s what everyone believes, yes,” replied John. Rannilt nodded.

“It makes sense,” she said thoughtfully. “There was something about him, something that didn’t quite match the role of the dumb country lad he was playing. I’ve seen enough squires and young lordlings while we were going from manor to manor in search for a patron; whenever Benet slipped, rarely though it happened, I could see the lordling behind his mask. He played his part well, but in the end, he could not only deny his true nature. He’s someone used to wield the sword, not the spade.”

“Whatever he might be, he saved your life, and for that, I’m grateful,” said John simply. “And for that very reason, I cannot imagine him capable of such dire a deed as hitting a man from behind and drowning him in the millpond. Nay; had he seen it needful to kill the priest, as awful as it sounds, he’d have struck him face to face. More so as Father Ailnoth was clearly no coward. He had not raided the sheriff’s men ere he’d storm off to confront Benet – well, _Ninian_ , as I’m told his true name is supposed to be – with his suspicions.”

“So you did help him,” Rannilt’s tone revealed that it wasn’t truly a question; she was quite certain that John had done the right thing.

John nodded. “Don’t tell my mother, though,” he asked. “’Twould just upset her needlessly. But yea, I felt that I ought to keep my promise. Besides, ‘tis just for the one night. By daybreak, he’ll have better help than that which I could offer.”

“I hope he’ll find his way out of the town safely,” murmured Rannilt. “’Tis not right that a man would be hunted like some beast; less so if he did nothing wrong.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It seemed that the guardian angels had been listening to Rannilt’s pleas on behalf of her saviour, because the sheriff’s men had been unsuccessful to find Ninian Bachiler, despite their best efforts. The only one who might have an inkling about the young man’s whereabouts was Brother Cadfael, and he had gone great lengths _not_ to learn anything useful, and so could state with good conscience that he did not know where the fugitive was hiding. He did not feel needful to tell anyone about his _guesses_ , and Hugh Beringar knew better than to ask.

And so the first of January, the very first day of the new year 1142 arrived, with both murder cases still unsolved; the day chosen for Father Ailnoth’s funeral. It dawned grey and moist, with the vague promise of the sun perchance coming through slowly for an hour or two around midday, ere the mist would close in towards nightfall again. Cynric, the verger, had already dug the grave on the previous day, and was now looking to see everything neat and ready for the ceremony.

The people of the Foregate began to gather outside the great west door of the Holy Cross church before the hour for Mass, with faces carefully schooled to a grave and ceremonious mien; but their eyes met with cautious yet ill-veiled relief. It almost seemed as if they wanted to make certain that Father Ailnoth’s black shadow had been lifted from above them for good.

It was mostly the men of some substance who had come, and even from those mostly the ones with some substantial grievance towards the now-dead priest, like Jordan Achard, the Foregate baker, Rhys ab Owain, the Welsh farrier, and others who’d good reason to hold a grudge against their late shepherd. They gathered around Erwald the wheelwright, the reeve of the Foregate, who commanded enough respect among his peers to be called _provost_ , even though he had not officially been awarded with the title.

There were little people, too. Aelgar, for one, who had worked for the parish all his life, and whose widely known status as a free man had been questioned by his new master. Eadwin, whose boundary stone had been shifted when the priest had ordered Aelgar to plough closer to the boundaries. Centwin, whose child had died unbaptized and been buried in unblessed ground, for the priest would not interrupt his prayers to go to the sickly babe. The fathers of the boys who had been beaten viciously for small mistakes made during Ailnoth’s lessons.

Even some of the women were there, despite the early hour in which most of them would have plenty of domestic duties to attend. True, these were mostly the matrons: widows of solid craftsmen, who upheld the church even at times when others would grow lash in their worshipping. As a rule, these sturdy she-elders attended to the monastic Vespers as well as the parish Mass, and were now standing in their decent black like the stalwart pillars of the laity that they, in fact, were.

Cadfael, coming down the night stairs with the others, still drowsy from so short a rest – the Office of the Dead had been a lengthy affair in the previous night – spotted among them Mistress Boneth and the Widow Nest. Rannilt, however, was absent; presumably watching over both poor Eluned’s daughter and her own son, so that the two matrons would not miss the ceremonies of the day. The Widow Nest must even have felt some small, albeit guilty satisfaction to see the tormentor of her daughter dead.

Dame Diota Hammet came in at the gate, escorted by a finely-clad girl: Sanan Bernieres, Lord Griffard’s step-daughter, who, as Cadfael alone of all people present was aware of it, had been the one to help Ninian escape Shrewsbury… and intended to go with him, being one of the Empress’ partisans herself. She certainly could afford to do as she pleased, being an independent heiress of enough wealth of her own. But there was the unsolved question of the priest’s death still, and Cadfael, who knew Ninian would not leave town before he could be certain that Mistress Hammet was cleared of all possible suspicion, could only hope that the boy would do nothing foolish to endanger himself.

For Hugh Beringar had carefully planted the rumour that he meant to attend Father Ailnoth’s funeral and fetch a murderer away with him. Cadfael knew, of course, that it was meant as a trap; meant to flush out the true murderer, as neither he nor Hugh truly believed that the boy would have anything to do with it. But a madcap like Ninian, who also felt deep loyalty and responsibility towards his former nurse, might have decided to do something heroically stupid in order to protect her.

Therefore it was with a very bad feeling that Cadfael went to church to attend the parish Mass, together with his brethren, as it was to be celebrated by no lesser person than Prior Robert, with the eulogy spoken by Abbot Radulfus himself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“And you say the priest wasn’t even truly murdered, after all?” asked John Boneth in honest surprise.

Cadfael, who had come to see how Rannilt and the babe were doing – fortunately, they were doing just fine – nodded his grizzled head.

“So it seems, according to Cynric’s testimony, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t believe him. He saw Father Ailnoth come to the millpond, beyond the mill, between the willow trees, stomping and muttering in anger – at the same place where that poor Eluned must have gone into the water. Cynric saw Mistress Hammet beg for Ninian’s safety; saw Ailnoth struck her with that heavy walking stick of his. “Twas a heavy blow; I know that, for I dressed her wounds myself, only half a day later.

“Father Ailnoth was quite a violent man for a priest,” murmured Rannilt accusingly, “and short of mercy. ‘Tis only just that he’d die by the same.”

“You blame him for Eluned’s death,” said John. It was _not_ a question.

“How could I not?” Rannilt’s gentle voice grew cold with anger and sadness. “She _was_ repentant, I know she was, and that black priest refused her confession, shamed her before the entire parish and shut the door in her face. He couldn’t have slain her more surely if he stabbed her to the heart. She was a good girl; she might have sinned, yes, but she repented. The priest had no right to treat her like that!”

“He was well within his rights, child,” corrected Cadfael gently. “Whether he should have acted the way he did is, of course, another matter.”

“How _did_ he die, then?” asked Mistress Boneth, morbidly fascinated by the whole topic.

“He tried to strike Mistress Hammet again, or so Cynric says,” replied Cadfael. “She clung with both hands to the head of the stick to save herself. Ailnoth, it seems, tugged at it with all his strength, tore it out of her hands – and reeled backwards when he succeeded, crashing right into the stump of a willow… and went into the water as he fell.”

“And Cynric didn’t help him?” Mistress Boneth was clearly mortified.

“Nay, Cynric didn’t help him,” answered Cadfael slowly. “He turned his back on Father Ailnoth, drifting in the pond, dazed, and walked away from him; just as Ailnoth had turned his back on Eluned and walked away from her, shutting the door on her tears.”

“Good,” said Rannilt coldly. “Had God willed him to live, he would have lived. Yet it seems there still is judgement and justice in the heavens, as he died unshriven, as Eluned had died. For in the eyes of God and every good man, he was guilty in driving her to despair.”

Mistress Boneth could only gape, hearing such a harsh judgment from someone usually as quiet and subdued as Rannilt. Even John Boneth, a lot less forgiving towards the clergy as his pious mother would be, seemed to have his doubts.

“Could he have been saved, though?” he asked. Cadfael shrugged.

“I know the place and searched it thoroughly when we found Ailnoth. In the dark, when there was no moon, I doubt if any one man could have got him from under that bank, however hard he laboured at it.”

“He could have called for help,” said John, uncompromisingly.

“Perhaps so,” allowed Cadfael. “However, ‘tis my belief that even if there had been help within reach, Ailnoth would have drowned ere they could have got him out. We certainly had a hard enough time to pull him ashore, even dead.”

“What are the lord sheriff’s thoughts about the matter?” asked John, still not fully convinced. “I know you have his ear, Brother; and he yours.”

“His thought is that while allowing a death to take place may be a sin, ‘tis surely not a crime,” answered Cadfael slowly. “He holds firmly to his own writ; and sinners are Father Abbot’s province, not his. We should be grateful that at least Father Ailnoth’s death wasn’t been the doing of any decent man from the town.”

“ _If_ Cynric has told the truth,” emphasized John. “He may very well have done more than just turn and walk away, leaving the issue of life and death to God.”

“He may have,” admitted Cadfael, “though I do not think him a man of violence, even where he found much to provoke it. And at least part of his tale has been confirmed by the testimony of Mistress Hammet and the evidence I found myself: Her hairs caught in the frayed edges of the silver band of Ailnoth’s walking stick. And the grazes on her hands, caused by the same band. No, I firmly believe that Cynric told us the simple truth, and Ailnoth’s violent act has become his undoing.”

“A well-deserved end for a man whose calling should have been to guide and to help and to comfort the poor souls for he’d become the terror of their lives,” said Rannilt coldly. “What about your lad Benet, though? Or Ninian, as his true name happens to be? Is he still being hunted?”

“If he is, ‘tis a hunt in vain, for certain,” answered Cadfael contentedly. “For I’m fairly certain that he’s already given them the slip and left town, with Lord Ralph Griffard’s own step-daughter, none less. I can foresee that the two of them will be married as soon as they reach Gloucester.”

He cast a shrewd look at Rannilt, to see whether that thought bothered her or not. After all, Benet – Ninian! – _had_ saved her life at the second attack, and it would have been easy for someone like her to fall into hero worship with her rescuer. It did not happen often that a poor, widowed maidservant would be rescued by the squire of a great lord like FitzAlan.

But Rannilt just smiled, clearly happy for the good luck of her one-time hero. “I wish them both all the happiness in the world,” she said simply, and there could be no doubt that she truly meant it.

Cadfael whole-heartedly agreed with her. Ninian Bachiler and Sanan Bernieres certainly deserved each other and all the happiness one could find in a country torn apart by kin-strife. Knowing Sanan’s practical mindset and strong determination, he had little doubt that she would be able to steer Ninian on a path of success. If the throes of war spared them, they could hope for a long and content life together.

It pleased him greatly that the hunted had escaped without sullying his hands with any-one’s blood. Poor John Weaver’s death had been all but cleared, too: Arald was dead and Will Wharton on the run. Now, if they could only find the fourth perpetrator of their bond, both he and the people living in the Boneth household would be able to sleep peacefully again.


	10. Gregory's Testimony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The various parts of this chapter take place in a time span of about two months, told in linear time. Oh, and I took a bit of creative freedom by using the Welsh blood price solution for manslaughter that happened in England.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**CHAPTER TEN – GREGORY'S TESTIMONY**

Spring came late to the English countries in the year 1142 of Our Lord. After a relatively mild December in 1141, the sudden onset of cold lingered far into March and April of the new year, and had scarcely mellowed even at the beginning of May. As a rule, sowing and planting should have been started weeks previously, but there was no point in planting seed that would either rot or freeze in soil too chilly to engender life.

Even the bees, led by some instinct unfathomable for mere men but surely gifted upon them by the Creator, mindful of all His creatures, small and large, had not even begun to wake up yet. And those of them which had, depleted their stores and had to be fed, to Brother Bernard’s concern and sorrow. ‘Twas a lucky thing that the fruit-blossom had held back so far, too, or else the entire harvest could have fallen out, without the diligent work of the little winged helpers. Even so, it promised to be a thin crop that year.  
  
The kin-strife between King Stephen and the Empress Maud had also come to a tentative halt, as if it had frozen cold with the rest of the world. Part of the reason surely must have been the fact that Stephen had fallen ill in the south – and so badly that the rumour of his death had spread throughout England. And while that rumour had soon proven false, there could be no doubt that he was indeed bed-ridden due to a virulent fewer, and the whole England was waiting with bated breath for news of his recovery – or his demise. To the latter ones belonged, most certainly, his royal adversary, the Empress, who had cautiously moved her headquarters to Oxford, where she settled down to wait patiently for him to make truth of the rumour.

So far, Stephen had stubbornly declined to do her the favour. But those loyal to him either by choice or out of a healthy sense of self-preservation, had their eyes turned anxiously to the south, and in the Abbey of Shrewsbury, prayers were said and Masses sung for his recovery. Others, both former supporters of the Empress and people who had simply had enough of the kin-strife and wanted it to come to an end, one way or another, nurtured cautious hopes for a different outcome but knew better than voice their hopes – in case the King would manage to recover, after all.

And recover he did, indeed, around the first days of June, just when the long sub-frost finally broke. And with him breaking into vigorous action, the kin-strife started anew, to the grief and sorrow of the long-suffering people of the country.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The breaking of the long winter also brought a break in the still-unsolved case of Liliwin’s murder. Will Wharton, suspected murderer of John Weaver and one of Liliwin and Rannilt’s attackers, had been finally caught near Buildwas, some ten miles south-east from Shrewsbury, in an abandoned cottage, half-starved and very nearly frozen to death. He was brought back to Shrewsbury and thrown into the castle dungeon, which was most likely a vast improvement to the places he’d been living since his flight. But no matter what Hugh and his sergeants tried, he remained stonily silent.

Not that there would have been any doubt concerning his culpability. Not only had been a cudgel found among his meagre belongings, with the blood of poor John Weaver’s still on it, but Rannilt, as the only surviving eyewitness of the original attack, clearly identified him as one of the attackers.

Mindful of his responsibility as Rannilt’s protector, John Boneth escorted her to the castle personally, leaving his workshop to Griffin, despite his worries that the daft boy would be out of his depths without proper supervision.

The castle of Shrewsbury, although it housed a small garrison that should have, in theory, keep it for King Stephen – a theory that, thankfully, had not been tested since the siege of 1138, when the King had taken it to begin with – was a fairly peaceful place, now that the changing luck of warfare had washed the kin-strife safely to other parts of the country. Save from the casual traffic of the watch, no sign reminded of the civil war still going on elsewhere, and the townspeople were allowed to go in and out freely with their requests and complaints. Like his predecessor, Hugh Beringar was trusted to be fair in day to day matters; and, unlike Sir Gilbert, he was a man of easy-going manners and of a somewhat less heavy hand.

Rannilt followed her protector up the steep street to the High Cross, then down the gentler slop beyond the ramp leading up to the castle gateway and through it. In the great court, Jehan came to meet them, ushering them through to the inner wand and a chill, stony hall hung with smoky tapestries. They were asked to sit on a bench against the wall ‘til the lord sheriff arrived and the prisoner would be brought up from his cell. They did as they had been asked; Rannilt, who had never been to the castle before, looking about her with anxious eyes.

Soon thereafter, Hugh Beringar walked in briskly, with Will Warden at his elbow and followed by two of his officers who led in the prisoner. The hands of the convict were bound before him with rope, although that hardly seemed necessary, considering the pitiful shape he was in. He was so haggard that it seemed what little flesh was left on his bones would melt and drop off them any moment, and his extreme pallor would have better matched a dead body than the face of any living man.

“Mistress Rannilt,” said Hugh gently, surprising his own men even, by giving the honorary title to the widow of a wandering juggler, “do you recognise this man? Was he among those who had attacked you and your husband?”

Rannilt looked at the prisoner with cold, detached pity. The miserable wretch, battered by the circumstances of his flight, seemed to have nigh to nothing to do with the brawny, well-fed young fellow who had felled Liliwin with his mere fist and kicked him in the ribs repeatedly, after Liliwin had already fallen. That wasted face, with the hollow cheeks and with the madness glittering in those sunken eyes, had very little similarity with the round, ruddy, leery visage of their biggest, strongest attacker.

Rannilt recognised him nonetheless.

“Yes, he was one of them,” she said simply. “He was the one who sent Liliwin to the ground with a single blow, while the younger one, the one with the leather jerkin, grabbed me by my hair and held me down for the others, so that they could kick the babe out of me.”

John Boneth felt a sudden, violent urge to get sick, and Hugh Beringar also looked a little green in the face, being a father himself. Even Will Warden, hardened by his field of work, blanched for a moment by the thought of such vicious acts against a pregnant woman… and one who had never harmed anybody.

“How did you break free?” asked Hugh.

“Liliwin managed to kick this one in the groin,” answered Rannilt in the same calm, even voice. “He tore the young one away from me, sweeping his legs from under him, and told me the run. So I ran and hid under the bushes. This one and the man who’s dead now, the one who smelled of sour wine, continued beating up Liliwin; the young one and their fourth fellow tried to find me, but I was very quiet and lay very still, so they couldn’t. Thus they returned to their friends and kept beating and kicking Liliwin, as long as he was moving. When they thought him dead, they left him behind and went back to the town.”

The three men, who heard the detailed tale of the original attack for the first time – as Rannilt had only ever told it to Cadfael –, were shaken by the description; and by the manner she had delivered it: calm, collected, unwavering. She was beyond grieving by now; now he was focused on bringing the murderers of her husband to fall.

“Was he also among those who ambushed you and Benet – I mean Ninian – on the day before Nativity?” asked Hugh after a while.

Rannilt thought about that for a moment; then she shrugged.

“I cannot say,” she confessed. “I recognized the young one and the one who was drunk, but I didn’t see the third one, not truly. By his size, he _could_ have been it… or not. I do not wish to accuse a possibly innocent man falsely. I simply do not know.”

“It matters not,” commented Will Warden. “He’ll be hanged for the other two murders anyway… won’t he?” he looked at the sheriff askance.

Hugh nodded. “He most certainly will; as soon as we’ve caught the fourth man in their party to make them both a proper trial. ‘Til then he’ll be kept in the castle dungeon under constant watch.”

“But how long do you intend to keep him, my lord sheriff?” asked Will Warden. “We cannot watch and feed him year upon year.”

“There will be no need for that,” said Hugh. “Saint Peter’s fair is coming up next month, and with it the river barge of Mistress Emma Corviser. Her man can give testimony which of the suspects had sent him to Longner with a rebec to sell. After that, the case will be hopefully solved.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
It seemed as if the weather had wanted to make up to the people of Shrewsbury for the unusually long and cold winter, for when summer finally came, it came with a vengeance. The harvest might prove leaner than in the years before, but the crop was promising, and there was hope that they would have no shortage of the autumn fruits, either, with the days having so much sunny hours and with just a right amount of rain to keep the soil fertile.

And so when the thirtieth day of July, the eve of Saint Peter ad Vincula, finally arrived, the last day before the annual fair, there were booths already going up in the great, green triangle of the horse-fair, and all along the Foregate from the bridge to the corner of the fairground where the road went towards the king’s highway to London. By river, road, afoot through the forests and over the border from Wales, traders of all kind began to make their way to Shrewsbury. The Abbey stewards were standing by to guide pedlars and merchants and collect the tolls due on the amount of wares they had brought.

In the afternoon, word came to the castle that the ship of the late Master Thomas of Bristol, now belonging to Mistress Emma Corviser, had been spotted upon the river and was now approaching the long wooden jetty downstream from the bridge, where the rich lowland known as the Gaye began. Energized by the news, Will Warden took Jehan with him and went down to the river in his own respectable person, to take their possible eye witness into protective custody before the fourth murderer they were sill looking for could have silenced him.

As always, the annual return of the best, most imposing merchant ship that had visited Shrewsbury in the recent years, caused great excitement among the urchins of the Foregate, who had gathered at the riverside to admire her smooth sidling along the grassy shore. She was a Bristol-built vessel, reportedly for a thousand marks, so cunningly as to draw hardly more water than boats half her capacity yet steer well and ride steadily.

An impressively opulent and graceful ship, with a single mast and a neat, closed cabin aft, she loomed largely above the smaller boats – and yet a small crew of three could pole her inshore, with easy, light touches, waiting to moor her alongside as soon as there was room. One of the Abbey stewards was already waiting to collect the to levy the toll for the wares stored on her – which, in Will Warden’s expert estimate, would be as like as not twenty pence, at the very least, for she was laden heavily.

The Sergeant also recognised the Abbey clerk waiting at the jetty: it was no lesser personage than Master William Rede himself, Brother Matthew’s chief steward – and the father of their main suspect. Will Warden could not help but pity the good, honest (albeit not always easily endured) man who would most likely be shaken to the bone, should the suspicion against his only son be affirmed. For no matter how much Master William had always complained about Eddi, there could be no doubt that he loved his wayward offspring with all his heart.

Mistress Emma, too, had come down to the jetty to oversee the mooring of her boat and accept the account her men would render to her. As it was proper to her position as the wealthy wife of a respected craftsman and the daughter-in-law of the provost himself, she had not come alone but accompanied by Warin, her clerk, who was safely beyond the age that his presence would send people’s tongues wiggle.

The one obviously in charge of the boat would have been a different matter. A burly, well-set-up young man he was, in his early thirties, with a lean, tanned face, brown of hair and eye, clad in good, solid homespun still cut in the same fashion as he had worn in his years as a journeyman, but obviously recently made and fitted for him rather than inherited from a previous owner. He clearly still did not think himself too fine for helping the two boatmen serving under his hand to hoist casks of wine onto the jetty, while a fourth man, by his clothing and appearance their clerk, stood on the board still, ticking items that had already been removed off a long list.

Spotting Emma Corviser on the shore, though, he put down his burden and came to greet her with a respectful bow and a few carefully chosen words. Once the late Master Thomas’ journeyman, Roger Dodd was now an accepted member of the _Guild Merchant_ in Bristol, recorded as the junior partner of his former master’s heiress. He had accepted the position as it secured him a safer, better-established living than trying to start an independent business of his own from the scratch – and, if his hungry eyes hovering upon his mistress were any indication, also to remain close to Emma, with whom he still seemed to be as deeply and hopelessly in love as he had been three years previously.

He was followed ashore by the clerk of the Bristol business; a sure, square-set young fellow in his mid-twenties, with a round, smiling face and large, candid eyes, a pen stuck behind his ear. Will Warden recognised the clerk at once, of course: Jacob of Bouldon, who had entered the Abbey service in early 1140, only to rob and nearly kill Master Rede while collecting the Abbey rents with him. The same Master Rede who was now standing at the head of the jetty, waiting for the toll to be paid.

“That ought to be an interesting reunion,” commented Jehan. “How did that fellow escaped from being hanged or at least having his hands hacked off anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” asked the Sergeant with a frown; then he counted in his head and realised why. “Right, you were off to the wedding of your sister at that time. In any case, Mistress Emma has struck a bargain with the sheriff, buying the young man free from the gallows and sending him to Bristol, where he and that foreman of hers, Roger Dod, can keep a mutual eye on each other. ‘Tis said to have improved the business enormously, as Jacob appears to live in deadly fear of Master Dod.”

“I remember this Roger Dod from the time when Master Thomas was murdered,” said Jehan, who had served in the castle garrison since 1138, thoughtfully. “A very personable young fellow he is; if only he weren’t so curt and withdrawn in manner. And jealously devoted to his mistress, too.”

“ _That_ part doesn’t seem to have changed,” replied Will Warden drily. “Well, now that they’ve moored already, we ought to go and pick our man out of the crowd.”

‘And perchance, try keeping Master Rede and his would-be murderer from each other’s throats,” added Jehan with a mirthless grin.

“That, too,” agreed Will Warden sourly, already on his way down to the jetty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
‘Twas indeed a most remarkable scene when Master Rede and Jacob of Bouldon came face to face. The younger man became deadly pale upon seeing his almost-victim so unexpectedly, while Master Rede’s visage reminded of a thundercloud; a particularly dark one. To his credit, however, the chief steward of the Abbey did not say a thing to the man who had nearly murdered him two years previously. He took the toll, stone-faced and grim, and if he levied it a little higher than he should have, who would blame him for such minor vengeance? It was not so as if he would put as much as a half-penny of it into his own pocket. And Roger Dod, of that Will Warden was fairly sure, would cut the difference from Jacob’s payment, so that his adored mistress would not come short.

Only when he went on his way to the next boat could Master Rede be heard to make bitter complaints under his breath. But those complaints about such times in which would-be murderers could buy themselves free for the right amount of money were voiced carefully low, as speaking thusly against the sheriff’s authority could have had serious consequences.

Fortunately for Master Rede, Will Warden chose to pretend that he had not heard anything. ‘Twas understandable that the man would be bitter, seeing that his almost-murderer had got away nearly unscathed.

Jacob of Bouldon visibly deflated with relief when Master Rede was gone – it could not be easy for him, either, to face the man he had nearly murdered out of greed – and eagerly presented the list of the wares brought to be sold on the fair to Mistress Emma. She read it carefully; then she gave it her household clerk for safekeeping.

“Master Roger must have a copy of this, Warin,” she said, with just a hint of warning in her voice; then she turned her attention to one of the boatmen uploading the barge. “Gregory, when you’re done here, you’ll go with these officers to the castle. The lord sheriff will have some questions to you.”

The young man thus addressed – a gawky, lean but powerful fellow barely beyond twenty – gave said officers an anxious look.

“I’ve done nothing wrong, Mistress,” he protested fretfully.

“No-one accuses you of any wrongdoing, lad,” said Will Warden in a placating tone, remembering that Gregory was a dimwit and thus easily frightened, despite his strength. “We need your testimony in a small matter that happened when you were last in town, that’s all. Jehan here will wait ‘til you’re finished with work and escort you to the castle.”

“Is that truly needful?” asked Emma, troubled by that thought. “He’s obedient; he’ll go when summoned.”

“We don’t doubt that,” said the sergeant grimly. “We just don’t want anything to happen to him before he’d reach the castle.”

Emma blanched; she clearly had not thought that as an important witness, Gregory could be in danger. “They’d go after him, too?”

Will Warden shrugged. “They’ve already slain two men; one of them their own fellow-in-crime. They won’t stop now; the last one still running free will do everything to remain unrevealed, I deem. We better don’t take any risks.”

That, as Emma reluctantly admitted, was very true, and thus they agreed that Gregory would go to the castle with Jehan as soon as the wares were secured in the booth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Gregory arrived at the castle a good hour later, clearly frightened and a little resentful, as dealing with authorities on his own always filled him with unease, but safe and hale in the protective company of Jehan. He was promptly taken to Hugh Beringar’s office – the same chilly stone hall with the smoky tapestries Rannilt and John Boneth had visited nearly two months earlier, and Hugh Beringar questioned him about his last stay in Shrewsbury thoroughly yet in a friendly enough manner. The lord sheriff’s friendliness lessened Gregory’s anxiety a great deal, and willingly enough did he tell Hugh everything he could remember. Which was not much – but enough to start them on a new trail.

Yes, he had met Arald and Will Wharton and that poor John Weaver in the _Three-Tree-Shut_ tavern a couple of times. It had been the weaver who had taken him there, him being the only one Gregory had previously known, from Mistress Emma’s new business. Yes, there were others, too: Bertred, the Vestiers’ foreman; that fellow who served the old wool merchant, by the name of Gunnar or something like that; the stone-mason’s journeymen, whose names Gregory did not know; and young Master Rede, who had always been very generous with poor John. Always buying him a drink or two.

If he had been given anything to sell for them? Why, yes, young Master Rede had asked him to take an instrument – a _rebec_ he called it – to Longner, hoping that the worthies there would show interest in buying it. No, they had not bought it, in the end. What he had done with the rebec? Why he had given it back to Master Rede, of course. It had been his, after all; a gift from his mother, he had said, but he had not wanted to keep it, as he did not have any particular talent for music and needed the money he could have gotten for it.

Hugh Beringar asked a few more questions, mostly to clarify some minor details; then he released Gregory, who seemed mightily relieved.

“Well, it makes things abundantly clear,” he said to Will Warden glumly. “I pity the Abbey steward; it will be a harsh blow to him. Complain as he might about that rogue son of his all the time, he loves the lad very much… in his own manner.”

“It cannot be helped, though,” said the sergeant. “Due to Gregory’s testimony, we _must_ search the house of the Redes. And if we find that rebec there, or indeed anything that might have belonged to the minstrel, young Master Rede shan’t escape the gallows, I fear. A shame, though. Most of the town’s hopeful youths start off on the wild side yet settle down respectably enough in good time. I wonder what have thrown him so off-kilter that he ended up a murderer.”

“We still don’t know how much guilt he’s taken upon himself,” said Hugh. “Liliwin’s death might or might now be intended. We must learn whether he had any part in the second attack against Rannilt, though – or in the murder of John Weaver.”

“’Tis still enough to search his father’s house, though,” said the Sergeant.

Hugh nodded. “Yes, it is; and I’m _not_ looking forward to do it.”

“You don’t have to be part of it, my lord,” Will Warden offered. “We can do this on our own well enough.”

But Hugh shook his head. “No, sergeant. I’m responsible for the things that happen within my writ; besides, it will be courtesy towards the Abbey if I look into the matter personally. I shall be there.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And thus Hugh Beringar was indeed in the company of Will Warden and Jehan in the next morning when they went to search the house of Master William Rede. He had asked Abbot Radulfus’ permission to take Brother Cadfael with them, in case either the steward or his wife would suffer a seizure of some sort from the excitement. Besides, the house was Abbey property, rented to the head clerk as a lifelong lodging, so it was only proper that someone from the Abbey would be present, too.

The house – a fairly small one – stood in a narrow passage near Saint Mary’s Water-Lane, above the water-gate… not a hundred paces from where Master Rede had been attacked and robbed two years earlier. In this early hour, both the squarely-built, balding steward and his brisk, bird-like little wife were still at home, with Master Rede not having left for the Abbey just yet, for his duties there would not begin before the _None_ bell. Both husband and wife were clearly surprised by the unexpected visit from the sheriff himself.

“My Lord Beringar, ‘tis a rare honour for our humble home,” said Master Rede, eyeing the Sergeant and his man-at-arms with wary curiosity. “And Brother Cadfael, too – how can I be of service?”

“I fear I’m the bearer of black news, Master William,” answered Hugh grimly. “We have some business with your son. Where is he?”

“He went to the butts with those useless friends of his again,” scowled the steward. “’Tis nothing but vexation with him; he won’t learn how to do any honest work. There’s nought but shooting and drinking and gambling for him. What has he done _this_ time?”

Hugh shot a warning look at Will Warden who had already dispatched Jehan to send a few men to the butts and take Eddi Rede under arrest. The Sergeant understood the wordless warning and shut his mouth.

“We’ve got reason to assume that your son’s harbouring stolen goods, Master William,” said Hugh, not quite ready to confront the worried father with the full measure of his son’s supposed crimes. Not before he would have any evidence, at least. “I regret, but we shall have to search the house. Brother Cadfael has come to witness for the Abbey.”

“My son – a thief! I shall never believe that!” protested Master Rede. “He does have his faults, more than enough, in truth, but _stealing_? No; that he’d never do!”

“I did not say he’d been the one who stole,” corrected Hugh. “I only spoke about harbouring stolen goods. Now, Master William, let us do our duties here. I promise, we’ll be quick and won’t cause any damage to your household goods.”

The Abbey steward – what other choice would he have? – reluctantly gave his consent. Then he and his wife huddled together and watched the lord sheriff and his sergeant go through the house. Hugh and Will Warden were very thorough, thus the search took fairly long. More so as, according to Hugh’s promise, they took care not to damage anything. But they did turn over every item in the house, looked into every oh-so-hidden corned – and, after an hour or so, the sergeant finally found what they were looking for.

“My lord,” he said flatly,” I think we have our evidence now.”

And with that, he pulled out a small, well-made and well-tended-to rebec from under the bench of a little-used storeroom, together with the bow, with which it was played on.

“Can we confirm that this is the same instrument that was taken from the minstrel?” asked Hugh.

“We can,” replied Cadfael heavily. “Can you see the small, finely decorated A etched here, right under the neck? This is the mark of Brother Anselm’s handiwork. He was the one who rebuilt Liliwin’s rebec, and I saw him set this mark with my own eyes.”

“Liliwin?” replied Master Rede in shock. “The wandering minstrel who was beaten to death shortly before the town? Are you saying, Brother, that my son was part of such villainy?”

Cadfael looked at him in compassion. “I’m truly sorry, William, but it looks like that, yes. Four they were who committed the foul deed; two are dead already, the third one is sitting in the castle dungeon. It looks like Eddi was the fourth man in their league. We cannot say for certain, not ‘til he has faced Rannilt, but there’s little doubt that he was part of it. At least we know he was the one who tried to have this rebec sold. The lad he sent with it to Longner gave testimony; and as he’s God’s simpleton, with a wit too dull for lies, I fear there _is_ solid proof against your son.”

Mistress Rede began to cry, quietly like a little bird, while Master William’s face became alarmingly red at once; it was to fear that he might suffer a seizure of the heart. Cadfael hurriedly fished a small vial out of his scrip and forced the cordial that was in it down the man’s throat, so that his upset heart might calm down somewhat. After a short while the unnatural redness in Master William’s face lessened indeed, giving room to shocked pallor, and he was breaking more evenly.

“What will become of my son now?” he asked in resignation. “You’ll hang him, won’t you, my lord?”

“I might have to,” admitted Hugh honestly. “Much depends on Rannilt and her testimony. Also, as the wronged party, she has the right to demand his life… or any other minds of reparation.”

“That I’ve come to see this!” complained the steward. “The life of my only son, depending on the goodwill of a wandering conjurer’s wife!”

“His _widow_ , Master William,” corrected Hugh a little sharply. “A life is a life; and taken unjustly, the law knows no difference. Those four _did_ kill Rannilt’s husband; and very nearly her and her unborn child, too. As much as I regret your loss, Master William, she does have the right to demand the deaths of the murderers,” he looked at Will Warden. “We’re done here, Sergeant. Let’s go and question our prisoners. Cadfael, are you coming with us?”

The monk shook his head. “You go and do what you have to do, Hugh. I’ll stay hear to heal what still can be healed.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
And so it came that the _None_ bell found Rannilt on her way to the castle again, escorted by the daft boy Griffin this time, as John Boneth could not leave his workshop but neither would he let her go alone. Griffin, who had never been to the castle before, looked around him with awe and perhaps just a little fear. Rannilt, on the other hand, strode forward determinedly; glad that all would be over, soon.

The chilly stone hall with the blackened tapestries was almost familiar to her by now, and so were the lord sheriff and his bearded sergeant. The only new sight was the young man under guard: tall, shock-headed, dark-eyed, in good, solid homespun, his hands bound before him with rope. He stared back at her sullenly and a little aggressively.

“Do you recognize him, Mistress?” asked Hugh.

Rannilt nodded. “I do, my lord. He was one of the four men who attacked us on the road.”

“But he was not part of the second attack against you, was he?” asked Hugh.

“No, my lord. There were only three of them at that time; the two who’re dead now, and the one your men caught in the Long Forest… I think,” she added consciously. “He at least has the right shape; this young one does not.”

Indeed, Eddi Rede could not have compared himself with Will Wharton in his prime. Hugh accepted the answer.

“What do you say, Master Eddi?” he then asked. “Do you deny that you had part in killing Liliwin, Mistress Rannilt’s husband?”

“We didn’t intend to kill him,” answered the young man sullenly. “We just… John and Arald were so angry with Mistress Emma, who’d turned them out of their livelihood… and she refused me, choosing that boy Philip Corviser over _me_! We were…. We were angry and drunk, my lord, and wanted to beat up someone… anyone! And then Arald said that the minstrel and his wife would be coming back to Shrewsbury, and Will said it wasn’t right that he’d breed to set more leeches into this world, and… and we decided to give them a lesson.”

“What possible grievances would Will Wharton have against Liliwin?” asked Hugh with a frown. It did not make sense.

“Not against the minstrel; against his own master,” said Eddi. “Will has been in love with Heather Farrier for _years_ , but she wouldn’t have him. And now her father’s giving her to this Harald, this runaway villein! Will couldn’t bear it!”

“And so he chose to beat a man completely innocent in his misfortune to death, just because that man, while penniless and half-starved, was happily married,” said Hugh slowly. “And the rest of you, drunken fools as you were, went with him willingly – and to what end? Arald and John Weaver are dead, Will is going to hang for murdering John, and you – what will become of you, Master Eddi?”

“You’ll hang me, too, I suppose,” Eddy shrugged. “I wasn’t any better than the other three, after all,” but he was deathly pale and sweating, despite his brave words.

“That’s not strictly true,” said Hugh. “You’re guilty of manslaughter, true, as you did have your part in Liliwin’s death. But not in the second attack _or_ in the murdering of John Weaver, it seems to me. ‘Tis up to Mistress Rannilt now, I suppose,” she looked at her. “What’s your pledge, Mistress?”

“I don’t want him dead,” said Rannilt quietly. “What for? There have been too many deaths already; and robbing his parents from their only son wouldn’t brig my Liliwin back. But I want reparation, whatever the law would find justifiable, to secure the future of my child.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“It would certainly serve everyone better than simply having the lad hanged,” admitted Hugh to Abbot Radulfus when he was visiting the Abbey right after _Vespers_ , “but I cannot see how it could be done. For murder, even if it wasn’t pre-meditated, the law knows only one punishment: the gallows. I feel for Master William and his wife, yet my hands are bound in this matter.”

The abbot raised an inquisitive black eyebrow. “You did allow Mistress Emma to buy that wayward clerk of ours, Jacob of Bouldon, free, though,” he pointed out.

Hugh shook his head. “That was different. Under such circumstances – since the victim hadn’t died – transportation could be allowed; and Bristol is far enough.”

“What about drafting young Master Rede into service?” asked the abbot. “They say he’s a fairly good shot; and under the heavy hand of Sergeant Warden, he won’t have any time left for more foul deeds.”

Hugh shook his head again. “Sending him off to get killed won’t help either Rannilt or his parents.”

The abbot looked at Brother Cadfael who had been suspiciously silent during the entire discussion. “You have nothing to say, Brother?”

Cadfael stirred ever so slightly. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, thoughtfully, “we ought to give the Welsh law a try.”

Two sets of inquisitive dark eyes turned to him askance. Not even Hugh, despite his long dealings with their Welsh neighbours, could fathom what he was meaning. But again, Welsh law was a thing unto itself.

“Among the Welsh, ‘tis not seen needful to hang a man for slaying another one by accident or as the result of a brawl,” he explained patiently. “Usually, a blood-price is paid, to compensate the victim’s family for the loss of the one who’d fed them. Not a lifelong solution, for certain, but with the guilty man hanged, the family wouldn’t even have _that_ much; and it would rob the slayer’s family of its supporter, too. What would Rannilt have from the death of Eddi Rede? If he were to pay her a blood-price, though, she could use the coin for the good of her child.”

“What you say does have its merit,” said Hugh thoughtfully, “but we’re not in Wales here, and I don’t know if we should create such precedent, lest every man who slays another one would think they could buy themselves free.”

“There’s always that,” admitted Cadfael with a sigh. “Still, I find that it would be better for all parties involved if you could find a way to spare Eddi. As Rannilt said herself: there have been enough deaths already; and Will Wharton won’t be able to escape the gallows, with two deaths on his conscience.”

Hugh remained silent for quite a while. “I’ll have to consult the lawmen about this,” he finally said. “Also about the possible means and measure of the reparation.”

“You do that,” replied Cadfael. “I’m sure they’ll find the right answer for you… assuming you press them hard enough.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Mistress Rannilt,” began Hugh Beringar on the next day, having asked both Rannilt and the Redes to come to the castle to settle things between them. “How much would your husband be paid for one evening in a patron’s house, for playing music to the guests and doing all his tricks?”

“Between three or four pennies, depending on the generosity of our patron,” answered Rannilt quietly, “as well as supper with the servants.”

“And how often did he get such an offer, say, in a week?” continued Hugh. Rannilt shrugged tiredly.

“Once a week… perhaps twice, if we were very fortunate. Aside from the fairs, that is. The fairs were always better – but they’re way too rare.”

“A meagre living still,” said Hugh, “But ‘tis the best we can do,” he looked at the bitterly resigned Abbey steward. “Here is my judgement, Master William. I shall release your son into your custody. He’ll not be allowed to leave town, though, unless with my written permission. And he’ll pay Mistress Rannilt here four pennies a week, ‘til her son reaches the age of fourteen; as well as the apprentice fee, should the boy choose to learn a craft and be accepted by one of our craftsmen. After that, his life debt will be considered paid and he’ll be relieved from any further obligations.”

“That’s an awfully long sentence, my lord,” protested the steward, “and plenty of coin to play throughout those years.”

He might have complained some more, but – perhaps for the first time in their marriage – his wife silenced him.

“Oh, hush, William,” she scolded, as she would scold their son. “You should be grateful that the lord sheriff found a way to spare our son’s life! Who knows, perhaps this will teach him to settle down and do some honest work, for a change,” she turned to Rannilt, tears of relief flowing down her round, lined little face freely. “Mistress Rannilt, I’m truly sorry for your loss. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart that you agreed to this solution.

Rannilt gave her a small, tremulous smile. “What good would his death do me? And I’d hate to rob a mother her only son. I know it would destroy _me_.”

Hugh looked at Eddi Rede sternly. “Have you understood your sentence, young man? You shan’t be a free man, not truly; not as long as Rannilt’s son has grown enough to provide her with the necessities for life on his own.”

“’Tis still better than the gallows,” muttered the young man sullenly.

“Truer words have never been said,” agreed Hugh. “Now, I also want you to understand that you’ve been given this grace under the conditions named before. Should you fail to fulfil those, you’ll be summarily hanged. And Master William,” he added, giving the Abbey steward a warning glance, “you’ll _not_ pay the weekly reparation for your son. ‘Tis his penance, not yours.”

“But how is he to earn all that money?” protested Master Rede. “He never learned a craft to feed himself alone, less so others!”

“Then I’d suggest that he does so, in haste,” answered Hugh drily. “I hear that Mistress Emma Corviser is short a weaver. And Rychart Nyall, the carter, has been looking for an apprentice for years desperately enough to accept one even without a fee by now. Arald was fool enough to refuse the generous offer of becoming his own man in a mere four years – and for free! – and taking over the carter business in due time, as Master Nyall has no children of his own. Are you wiser than your friend, Eddi? Or do you wish to end the way he ended: hunted across the country and slain on the roadside?”

“I shan’t beg Emma for work,” muttered Eddi darkly. “Not after she’s turned down my suit and married that Philip Corviser instead. A child!”

“A good, daft workman who never lay on his father’s purse,” countered Cadfael, who, once again, acted as the Abbey’s witness. “Value your good fortune, lad, instead of belittling others through slander. You’ve seen where your idle life has led you – ‘tis high time for you to grow up and provide for yourself.”

“This judgement has been documented,” added Hugh. “A copy of the document will be sent to Brother Vitalis, Father Abbot’s secretary, as the Abbey still accepts some responsibility for Rannilt’s child. See that you fulfil your conditions, Eddi. ‘Tis our all hope that you’ll find your way, given enough time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Do you think we’ve done the right thing, Cadfael?” asked Hugh, after the Redes had left – after profound thanks from the parents (with plenty of tears from the relieved mother’s side) and still with a great deal of resentment from Eddi himself. “Or have we created another herd of simmering hatred that will come to a violent outburst one day?”

Cadfael thoughtfully shook his grizzled head. “No, I do not think so. Once he found some good, honest work, Eddi will learn to value what he has, just as the other wild lads of the town have.”

“Unless his resentment grows strong enough to drive him to other foul deeds,” said Hugh grimly.

Cadfael nodded. “There’s always the possibility that a man would choose the wrong way, yes. But I still believe that Eddi hasn’t lost all that was good in him, not entirely. I still believe that he can be redeemed yet.”

“I hope you’ll prove right,” said Hugh, still a little doubtful. “Fourteen years are a long time; unless Rannilt releases him from his obligations sooner.”

“Why would she do something like that?” asked Cadfael with _almost_ convincing innocence. “’Twas her main goal to secure the future of her child, now that there’s no father to take care of that.”

Hugh’s agile eyebrow almost got tangled in his back forelock.

“Perhaps because she’ll have other means to provide for herself and for her child,” he replied, with barely a hint of a question in his voice. Cadfael suppressed a smile. He should have known that Hugh would notice the signs.

“She might, and soon enough, if Mistress Boneth’s plans come to fruition,” he said placidly.

Hugh grinned from ear to ear. “Does John Boneth know of his luck yet?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Cadfael. “Neither does Rannilt, I suppose. But Mistress Boneth is a resolute woman, with a clear idea about what her son’s future ought to look like, and with enough strength and shrewdness to make it happen. And why shouldn’t she? It would be a good match.”

“You approve, then?” asked Hugh, smiling. Cadfael nodded.

“Indeed, heartily I do approve. ‘Tis a rare thing that a sudden, great passion would lead to such a happy marriage as yours. We all saw in Susanna Aurifaber’s case where such all-consuming passion can lead. Yet I do believe with all my heart that these two would be good for each other; that they can have a long and content life together.”

“I hear you say _content_ , not _happy_ ,” said Hugh shrewdly.

“Oh, they’ll be happy enough, I suppose,” answered Cadfael with a shrug, “once they realise how good they are for each other. And I believe Mistress Boneth can well make them understand that, in good time.”

“Your word in God’s ear,” Hugh yawned and stretched his booted feet away from his chair. “Well, since this is settled, with God’s grace, I should go home. Would you come with me and share a cup of wine with us?”

Cadfael shook his head. “No, Hugh, I cannot. You’ve got your duties and I’ve got mine; and I’ve tested Father Abbot’s patience long enough already. ‘Tis time for me to return to the flock.”


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than a year of living on the road, Liliwin and Rannilt return to Shrewsbury. Alas, it is not the return they have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How it all ends in contentment...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
**EPILOGUE**

Two years later, the return of Saint Peter’s Fair found Rannilt on the fairground, strolling from booth to booth of the Welsh merchants and craftsmen. Being half-Welsh herself, she wanted to buy a good, warm brychan and nothing else. But taking a look at all the finery and jewellery offered would harm no-one and would not cost a penny, so she took her time. She was carrying her newborn babe, barely a month old, on her arm, while little Liliwin, now two years and a half old, trotted along happily, holding fast to her skirts.

The other townspeople greeted her civilly when they met. The town had had enough time to get used to the fact that their respected master locksmith had married the penniless widow of a wandering conjuror. Quietly but firmly, she had established herself among the notables of the town, staying demurely in the background most of the time yet not backing off when she felt she had to stand up for herself. That Lady Beringar showed towards her such an open friendship had done a great deal of good to get her accepted, of course; as well as the fact that John’s mother was so obviously content with this match.

Her reputation had risen even higher last winter, when the Widow Nest had fallen too ill to care for her granddaughter any longer. Rannilt had then insisted on taking in poor Eluned’s daughter and raised little Winifred together with her own children. Right now, the little girl was roaming the fair with Mistress Boneth, who – like all other people – had become captive of her sweet nature and beautiful blue eyes, thus Rannilt was free to walk around with her sons.  
  
She had already selected two or three brychans of her liking and was trying to decide which one to choose, when she spotted a booth she had not seen on the previous fairs. ‘Twas the booth of a goldsmith; a Welsh one, offering brooches of an unusual, bold and almost barbaric design, yet of excellent workmanship. One of the smaller pieces caught her attention: it was shaped like a golden flower, with a periwinkle-blue stone in its centre… the same colour as Liliwin’s eyes had been.

She turned to the goldsmith to ask for the price – and the breath caught in her breast. The smith was a sturdy, compact person, by the look of him in his early thirties, his straight dark hair cropped short in a thick cap. His roughly-shaven face was broad but bony, dark-skinned and thick-browed, his eyes deep-set and dark. A wholly Welsh face it was, not truly comely in its brooding manner, yet honest and strong. He turned to the potential customer, too, willingly yet too proud to seem over-eager – and his breath caught, too. He became deathly pale under his sun-burnt skin, all the blood leaving his face.

“Rannilt!” he whispered. “Is that you?”

“Iestyn,” she replied, equally shaken, and rightly so. The man would have killed her four years previously, out of ill-fated, desperate love, just to protect Susanna. “I never expected to see you here again.”

Iestyn, once a journeyman of Master Aurifaber and the secret lover of the master’s ill-used daughter, shrugged dejectedly.

“Neither have I. But this is the biggest fair close enough to the Walsh border, and I need to sell my wares and make some money. We’ve got two babes to feed: twin sons, who are growing fast.”

“You married then, after all?” asked Rannilt, not truly surprised. No matter what the losses had been, life had the tendency to go on, after a while.

Iestyn nodded. “I found a Welsh girl; a small, hard-working, delightful creature who made my life worth living again. She’s not Susanna – no-one will ever replace her – but we have a good enough life. I’m well content, which is more than most people with plenty of money can hope for.”

Their eyes met in brief understanding, both of them knowing which people were meant: Daniel Aurifaber and his wife Margery, trapped in a still child- and joyless marriage, filled with bitter disappointment and mutual accusations. And old Master Aurifaber, still hopelessly wishing for grandchildren, perchance as a punishment for refusing Susanna the right to bear them. Then Iestyn’s eye took in Rannilt’s refined looks with appreciation.

“You seem to have done well for yourself, though,” he said. “Has your minstrel found a rich and steady patron?”

Rannilt shook her head. The loss of Liliwin had faded to a dull ache during the recent years, but it still _did_ ache; just as Iestyn still ached – and will ever ache – for Susanna. There were truly two of the same kind; or three, if one took John’s hidden passion for the same woman under consideration.

“Liliwin is dead,” she said simply. “Slain by some drunken riff-raff, right before the town. He left me with a newborn son, though, so in that matter, I’ve been more fortunate than you.”

For Susanna had died in Iestyn’s very arms, with their unborn child under her heart, and thus her man had nothing left of her, not even a child. Rannilt smiled at her gold-curled, blue-eyed toddler with tender love. Little Liliwin was truly the mirror image of his late father. The other child, the babe on her arm, had her dark hair and John’s brown eyes.

“I see you have two children, though,” said Iestyn, with a questioning overtone.

She nodded. “I married John Boneth when the year of grieving was over. He’s a good, decent man who helped us selflessly in our greatest need, and I shall ever be grateful for that, as long as I live.”

“Grateful,” replied Iestyn slowly. “I can see why you are; John has always been a good person. But does he make you happy, too?”

“As you said: I’m well content,” answered Rannilt honestly. “He’s not Liliwin – no-one will ever come close – but he doesn’t mind being second best; as I wasn’t his first choice, either. We get along amiably enough, and his mother loves me as if I were a daughter of her own flesh and blood. What else could I wish for?”

“Most people would say that we both have everything,” said Iestyn with a wry little smile. “A solid craft – or a respectable master craftsman as a husband – children, enough money to provide for our families… Yet we both know that there’s more in life than being just content.”

“We do,” agreed Rannilt, “and we can cherish that memory for as long as we still draw breath. Living in the past could be dangerous, though; it could poison the simple joys of the present. ‘Twould be foolish to give up what we have for might-have-beens.”

“You’re a wise woman, Mistress Locksmith,” said Iestyn, still with that wry little half-smile, “and I’m grateful that you could find it in your heart to forgive me for what I’ve nearly done to you.”

“Worse things have been done to me since then,” replied Rannilt simply, “and at least you’ve only threatened _me_ , not the ones I love. You were driven by desperate love; and you lost everything on that day. I never hated you; never wished you anything wrong. The only thing I truly felt for you was great pity, for the terrible losses you suffered; losses that I could all too well understand. I’m glad I no longer need to pity you.”

“No,” said Iestyn slowly. “No, you need not. I wish you only the best, Mistress Locksmith.”

“And I wish you only the best, too, Master Goldsmith,” answered Rannilt with a faint smile. “May the fair be a profitable one for you.”

Iestyn grinned at her and could not resist the urge; after all, business was business.

“You don’t want to help me making some modest profit, though?” he teased. “I saw that the flower-shaped brooch with the blue stone caught your eye. It would look very pretty on your bliaut.”

“Perhaps so,” she allowed, “but I don’t think it would be a good thing to bring it home.”

“Why not?” asked Iestyn. “Are you telling me that the wife of a master locksmith cannot afford such a small piece of jewellery? That stone has the same colour as your son’s eyes.”

“And those of his father’s,” sighed Rannilt, “which is the reason why I do not wish to take it home with me. It would cause too much heartbreak, I fear. Make me look backwards, while I ought to look forward.”

“Then choose something else; something that would draw your eyes forward,” Iestyn selected a different brooch, a larger one, clearly meant for the cloak of a man; it was round like a shield and adorned with a single jasper stone, the same colour as Rannilt’s own eyes. “Here, I believe John would like this one.”

Rannilt hesitated for a moment, then she gave in. She felt like giving John, good, honest, big-hearted John that small gift. They haggled for a while, and she finally got the cloak brooch for a price that was, in her opinion, somewhat under its true worth. Perhaps Iestyn wanted to ease his conscience a little; if that was so, she saw no reason why she should protest.

The goldsmith wrapped the brooch into a piece of linen cloth for her and she put it into her satchel. Before she would leave the booth, though, she turned back for a moment, sudden curiosity overcoming her.

“What’s the name of your wife?” she asked.

If the question surprised Iestyn, he did not show it.

“Briallen,” he answered simply. ‘Twas a beautiful name, the Welsh name of the primrose; Rannilt imagined that his wife must have been lovely, too.

“Give her my regards,” she said; then she took the hand of her eldest, hefted the babe a bit higher on her arm and left the fairground to buy that brychan he had originally come to achieve.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
John Boneth looked up from his work when his wife entered the workshop with the boys.

“Back so soon?” he asked, smiling. “Have you found the brychan you were looking for?”

“I have, and it is on our bed already,” she replied, standing on tiptoes to accept his kiss. “I’ve brought you something else from the fair, though. A gift.”

“A gift?” repeated John in surprise. He never asked Rannilt what she did with the weekly four pennies Eddi Rede was still paying her as reparation, but he knew she horded them for little Liliwin anyway. This was the first time that she’d buy something aside from the household necessities – and she had bought it for him?

“Just a small thing,” she showed him the cloak brooch. “I bought it from Iestyn; it appears he’s a master goldsmith now. He does lovely work, don’t you think?”

“He does indeed; but for him to come back,” said John, amazed. “Back where he suffered such a grievous loss!”

Rannilt shrugged. “He’s learned to live with his loss and build a new life for himself; as I have,” she said.

John looked at her intently. “Have you now?”

Rannilt smiled and kissed his soot-smeared cheek. “Yes, I have. Don’t fret so. Now, I need to feed and change our son, he’s complaining loud enough already. Don’t be late for supper.”

~The End ~


End file.
